Acupuncture by Eliza Rotterman

In the pale inner calm of my forearms
              needles resonate, two poles
                            from which densities and motives

bluely elaborate. I am in the city
              but above it, looking out from the second floor.
                            It’s raining so I close my eyes.

A silver argument
              of sea extends to where water and sky
                            are yet to complete

dissolution. I was there
              yesterday in a thrift-store wetsuit,
                            re-inhabiting the experience of immersion.

The part of me I can’t see
              increases with depth. I call this my shadow body,
                            the life navigating below. Brushing my legs,

a flick of vertebrae, the silk
              grip of kelp, a swarm of micro-currents
                            dissipating. The last time I swam

it was a different ocean,
              a different expectation towards which
                            I drifted.

My mind archives my body in time.
              This is a feeling, the rippling place, the foam
                            where a cormorant has just dove.  

I can’t tell you if my fears
              are becoming more numerous
                            or more specific. The pericardium

is a double-membrane
              surrounding the heart,
                            layers slide against each other

correspond to the points on my forearms
              where needles press.
                            Last night the green waves,

an electrocardiogram
              traversed the screen.
                            It’s my job to interpret slope

and deflection. But now I want
              to remember my feelings about the heart
                            before this. A blue whale washed up.

We approached the whale as if it shared likeness
              with something we’d seen before,
                            didn’t want to see again. And yet

we pulled out phones, took pictures
              as the sun flared in the interstice
                            of cloud and water.

No one could explain why the whale appeared
              to be boneless, like a broad shallow stone.
                            I told my friend

I was going to think about the whale
              as I fell asleep, its large heart
                            traveling districts of cold salt.

We closed in,
              pulled scarves over our noses,
                            the death-musk a molecular shape

the oldest region of the brain
              recognizes. Maybe you were next to me
                            or maybe you had turned

to walk back. It’s not desire
              between us but something else. A frequency
                            low and slow

like the color red, our thoughts
              sliding against each other
                            in correspondence
                                          elaborations
                                                        waves

Eliza Rotterman’s work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, TheVolta, Quarterly West, Colorado Review, TYPO and Poetry International, among others. She has received two fellowships from the Vermont Studio. Her first chapbook Dirt Eaters will be out from Tupelo Press in 2018. She lives in Portland, OR, and works as a nurse.