Pain

The spike in my shoulder is an old injury
a blocked channel, I am sure,
even though I believe in Western medicine,
and take Ibuprofen to mask flare ups.
But there is a deeper wisdom of the body,
a knowing of injustices,
a containing of toxic spills,
a place where the not forgetting, but the learning to live without,
must be contained.
Radioactive decay in my shoulder, as particle by particle,
the pain breaks down over a lifetime and a half
unless I find remediation for my own superfund site to speed
the healing.
The clean up is simple: the drunken forgetfulness of infatuation
anesthetizes me, while the good doctor does his work.
He wrings my liver of its mistrust, my kidneys of their rage.
He incises the cancers of sorrow and suffering with deft hand,
with a love that does not end no matter my pessimisms.