There were vast shelves of water spilling out
and now they putrify.
A hand, a rod, a fist of silt
has been thrust as a stopper and now the inland lays
arid and stripped.
The canker will be cut out.
It must, and so with fine precision I train my eye
on the inner bruise and slice it from me.
Cut, cut, cut.
I loosen the rut, find the pained place
and plane it smooth with one deft flick.
And now I breathe again;
the infection turned out like a cheap thrill should be.
I return to the spring, kneel beside the water,
pull on the coat of Shaman, Healer....
and touch it with my own two hands.
This was the original yen,
the ignored lyric of the heart:
my own two hands.
The original sin:
to let strange mouths drink from the water.