Tonight I drink these words in search of cure.
With my hands, I tremble and find those that are lost.
Numbing the stretch of my body;
The healer teaching itself how to heal.
Zaire, Zaire
sings in me like a cradle.
The steps and hands turn and remind me I am
found in a position, a hand gripped hand.
I run the bridges away.
It is tomorrow
with limbs missing.
I wait on the wall watching
to be last.
Making true thought through hands
shaking find the future.
I knew of today
It was beautiful
the thought of me
healing the mad in dance.
© 1984 Sonja J. Phinney
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