Crick

Written by: Asante Indira

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