Heartburn

What, my friend, are you holding 
so tightly in those clenched hands?
Sitting down for dinner, the knife and fork 
become weapons, the chicken split 
and seized with a vengeance, 
chewed quickly, the day’s disappointments
swallowed in silence.
 
Later, under cover of night
soldiers prepare for war, rebels
that march up from the belly’s depths,
firing indiscriminately:
good dreams die rapidly,
surrendering all sleep.
 
Here’s a disarming thought: hurts hurt.
Why not stop to tend the wounded
with more than antacid?
That nebulous lump in the throat
is your heart pounding
on the door with news:
it knows a place where there is no war.
 
Go there. 
Sit in the silence of things as they are, 
not yet furnished with human desire,
simply you, simply there
in the quiet space that disallows
a ragged chase between the breaths
and breeds instead a stilling wind
above the hallowed curve of your heart; 
 
follow it down like a lover, be wooed,
lie there in the arms of your own great soul,
leaning into its whisperings:
hosted, not held hostage,
weightless, hollow as bamboo,
full of holes still, yes, perfect
flute for it to blow through.