I go to the one who can cure me and say,
I have a hundred things wrong. Can you combine them to one?
I thought you were dead. I was, but I caught your fragrance
again, and came back to life.
Gently, his hand on my chest.
Which tribe are you from? This tribe.
He begins to treat my illness.
If I am angry and aggressive, he gives me wine.
I quit fighting. I take off my clothes.
I lie down. I sing in the circle of singers.
I roar and break cups, even big jars.
Some people worship golden calves.
I am the mangy calf who worships love.
The healing presence has called me from the hole I hid in.
My soul, if I am agile or stumbling, confused
or in my true being, it is all you.
Sometimes the sleek arrow.
Other times a worn leather thumbguard.
You bring me where everything circles.
