Psychic Surgery

Past caring how others judge me
I have lately arrived at a place where
scalpel must trace the delicate line
through this onerous will and slash away
that which is excessive and indistinct.
It is not impeccable beauty being sought
but quintessence of image placed before
the consummate goal of desire and rage.

Cosmetic surgery of the soul?
An absence of, a nip and tuck, brain-liposuction;
an elegant repose balanced in the eye of the beholder?
No. That’s not it at all. There is a place this must go.
A world without scars, before trust became
a skittish animal hidden in the shrubbery
waiting for absolute stillness before it emerges.

Along the gravel roads I pass there are places
where no one saw what I saw
heard what I heard, felt what I felt, know....
So how am I different from any other soul on the planet?
Who said my life was a template for solitude?
Yes, we are separated, alienated from the other;
so much so that merging seems to be the sole comfort,
respite from the mystical longing.

In this pine-needled world
tanager, blackbird, and jay scamper
limb to limb, glide tree to tree, their
song an amalgam of the raucous and refined.
Arid winds stream hot and breathless
upon my face, but I cannot turn away.
Something about this suspenseful time
rivets me to this stance - so I suffer it.

To find the source of hope and pass it along,
is that too much to ask? To reach within
and seize more than cerebral lint trapped
in the tortuous windings of my thought.
To drive the magus from his cave and set
the bastard free. The priestess lingers.
The surgeon’s eye steadies, no quavering now.
It is time.


© 2000 Melissa Songer