Locked

The chiropractor cracks this bag of bones
On his couch, his miraculous table,
Like a fist of pick-up sticks on a hard floor.
Am I the better for it? I hobble,
Stretch, and hope. My body-habit, hurt-locked,
Starts to shift, give. Mother, sad poet, says,
‘Sciatica’s like grief. You’ll think it’s gone.
It steals away, and so you’ll have yourself
A good day, or two, or more, and soon it’s back
Again and it lays you low like before,
So steel yourself, you won’t get over it,
No one ever really gets over it.’
I’ll water-walk, I’ll swim, buoy my core strength:
Relief from my middling miseries,
A hopeful friend says, will lift me from this pit,
And pain and grief will come back soon to visit
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