portion of artwork for Alexandra Isacson's poems

Alexandra Isacson

In therapy
I tear myself out of the rock.
Spirit oils are rubbed into my skin.
I do breath work, heart and voice,
one with the drum and others.
Faster. Faster. Someone screams.
Silence. Darkness.
Water drips somewhere.
I crawl in the red dirt.
For days my stomach empties
head pounds
a flame sears my soul
gives light to layers imprinted
and painted in the earth’s vessel.
Ultra-violet bison and horses run across
the walls in strobe light pulses.
A woman extends her hand
in another life.
A wave washes over me,
I bite the cord, release and
return in a fingerprint whorl,
wrapped in blankets of white light
shaking, then rest.
A wet cloth is offered.
Tell my story, empty pockets:
dirt, carved rocks, shells, amulets.
Everything charted, catalogued
put in baggies and boxes.
I am photographed,
paint scraped from my body.
I am home.

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