The Geography of the Mended Synapse

The Geography of the Mended Synapse

                           the breath     is the first     measurement

      of the field.

                                   not the metric, but the

                                   heave    of the rib-cage

                                   against the cold   nylon   of the strap.

I remember the spit-hood—

                           the mesh, a sieve for my own

                           exhausted carbon.

The institution        is a line        drawn too tight.

It is the white whale     of control        bleaching the blood.

Then     the spores.

The quiet, velvet   intrusion   of the fungal   root.

It does not ask       for permission.

It enters the blood      like a soft   mercy,

                           re-mapping the burned-out   avenues

                           of the pre-frontal   cortex.

Homeostasis is not a "peace."

                           It is a   Triumph.

The way the liver     purges the synthetic   salt.

The way the cannabis   un-clenches   the jaw

                           until the teeth   no longer

                           grind against   the memory of the cell.

Mother    Nature    is the only   uninterrupted   Law.

She is the soil   receiving   the spent   body,

                           and the plant   offering   the nectar

                           of the return.

                                   I am not being   healed.

                                   I am being   reclaimed.