Then, Begin

This belongs here. This knot,
feel it. Feel it bunched beneath
your xyphoid process, crowding
your diaphragm. Don't fight it.
Don't try to push it further down
or squeeze it into a tighter ball
to tuck behind your gall bladder
like so many broken scissors
shoved to the back of the junk
drawer. That's how you get cut.
Hold it a minute. Like an angry
child, it is probably just sad, in
need of a long, long hug. Ask
what it needs. Listen, of course,
and then listen some more, as
the knot rattles off its usual list
of short-lived salves. Say, Go
on, and What else? and Tell
me more, until it is spent, quiet
and pliable. Don't be surprised
if it lets you pull it out at that
point, lets you cradle it in the
crook of your left arm as you
gently pull a strand to the side
of its tight little body, wiping
a tear with the knuckle of your
index finger. We can work on
this, you say. We can get you
out of this mess. Then, begin.