I went for a massage today for the first time in many years. I chose to have a shiatsu massage, and as I lay face down wincing with the pain and visualising tomorrow’s bruises, I remembered my experience with acupuncture years ago, and the poem that it inspired.
If I can take time out to return to the masseur on a regular basis, I may even find the mental space to write something new. In the meantime, here’s something old:
Alternative Medicine
Dr Wo sticks needles into my hands,
my feet, my shins. I take
deep hatha breaths and relax
into the pain; bees drone
as I picture energy flow
along meridians to join the dots.
Thirty minutes later, the needles
draw blood. Wo’s face tells me
it’s my fault. He burns mugwort
against my skin and I swear
quietly in an unshared tongue.
I focus my thoughts.
A wax doll screams
then melts.
(And, yes, I still have the scars from the moxibustion burns.)
don't confuse the narrator 
Okay..so someone has be trying to convince me to go t and have acupuncture…you may have just supported my greatest fears…thanks…I think? Thanks for the peom.
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Oops! This is what comes of acknowledging a link between reality and poetry. I hoped the ‘about this blog’ made it clear nothing I write in first person should be thought to be 100% true: my ureliable narrator is clear about her lack of reliability.
The following, though, is as true as it ever is: The pain was very minor, and, like the blood – which was minimal and infrequent – probably assoociated with the body’s own imbalances. The moxibustion did hurt, but I’ve read that few practitioners in the West actually burn against the skin, so this is unusual. Seriously, for me it was all far less painful than a good massage, and with no after aches. If you’ve been told acupuncture may be helpful, go for it!
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