she fought it out
despite shame and fear
and near the end
lost sight of her own face
as it stared back in sorrow
up from the very deep well

the body deteriorates before we get out
the only way is through-
put that in a poem, ******
she said
and so I did.

Hollow as a reed
the moving Breath plays a song
who's hands are these that do The Work?
Who's eye's are these that see with love?
Who's heart is the heart of every living thing
and breaks, with little hesitation
with each pounding wave

step into it and
step aside
it is the only way it can work
otherwise we walk the tracks, head down
and we do not see the train, no,
nor where this road might take us
the soft deer trail that leads away

they taped the mittens to her hands
she would tear the IV from her body
they wrapped her up in swaddling clothes
as in the beginning  so in the end
she had forgotten to look up, so
very long ago
made a habit of grasping all
that could not be owned
and in the end it fled away

the body deteriorates before we get out
the only way is through-
put that in a poem,
******