Crick

The body becomes the prison I feel there is reason somewhere But these lessons seem ill prepared I’ve taken good advantage of the length of my neck And now there is steel from collarbone to jaw line In the tips of fingers are trills and little fires of anger I slept with the window open last night God forbid, the fresh air And now I muster up all the strength to close it and save the rest of my body I want to dare it; want to turn 180 And burn right where I’m damaged And then maybe the crick will become cracked And the stick will go slack And I can spin again From my own axis I’ve been thinking of him How he rejected the idea of olive oil On his neck, the healing of holy water How in three days he was healed And in three days his healer was risen The mercy of the breath given to reject The humble pompous anecdote Of his foolish mother in law And so in rebellion I prayed And turned to feel the pangs of pain Jesus rose on the third day Mister was healed just the same I can’t take two more days