something made and something borrowed.

Adjustment - Sophia Derugen-Toomey

Deliver me into doctor’s hands, or

chiropractor’s, please, to be pushed and palmed and pressed

into place, make me a man again or a mockingbird – or a marigold, stamen

and pistil and perfect petal, the unsullied architecture of a gold-faced thing

in early spring before the frost comes on, or the deer climb under

the trellis and nip at root vegetables, before aphids eat all the leaves up,

before singed hip-bones and the premature indignities, an ambiguous bladder,

a trick ankle, the failure of form over time. I can beat it with spinal alignment,

surely, I can be saved from falling into a heap, a sheaf of loosely affiliated parts.

Take me back to textbook womanhood.  This is the medical hope, no?

Otherwise it is hard to bear, really, to be both sometimes flatulent and immoral,

to fail at being what I am so long as seconds go by. Years? Yes, years are bad,

but even in minutes my resolve can crumble, and it is rather hard to remember

any successes, or days without digestive embarrassment. Couldn’t I have one?

Wouldn’t it be lovely, you know, to be hold steady in the eye of adversity, or

to be wildcat-supple. Even one, one option without obsolescence, would suit me fine.

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Hold On - Alabama Shakes