Susan Hahn

The Seventh Chakra

The forefinger and thumb thrum
on the odd feel of the short stiff hairs
like those found on a hog or a hat
of felt–press and mat
to the crown. That place

the sun hits first and the moon hides from
and the soul tries to crack
from its skull shell
like a newborn chick.
All the pushing in, the pushing out,
make the wound
so callous
yet always opening,
opening up to the opening
of the death of the dance:
the coulda, woulda, shoulda rumba
of the overexposed, over-
heated. Suddenly it’s too bright
to move–play at any game, even
golf–too hot–for the precise positioning
of the hands on that stick–
the putt, putt, putt into that
tiny bald hole. A larger one insists on being
dug, the thick shovel handled
by thug fists. It’s time
for the scorch of silence–
all focus on the delicate lotus
that has fought to emerge
from the moth-ravaged head.

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