A whirling steel fan reminds me of chaos.

She asks me the usual questions;

I give my usual, cordial answers.

Two decades now and what have I done?

Who have I seen?

Who has meddled in my wound to help me?

Everything, everyone, I say.

I withhold my customary joke about white witch doctors—

she’s an MD, but also knocks on Gambian drums

to rally her red-eyed healing spirits.

No need to stop traffic over it. Such are the times.

"What about your own practice," she asks.

"My practice? My practice. Ah yes." I let it drift.

"And your teacher," she says. "Does he still live in Fiji?"

"No, no. He died in November." I look up at Him. "So they say."

"What’s that?" she says.

I said, "He no longer lives in Fiji, no."

"I’m sorry," she says. And we carry on

as a beeswax candle drips down the television

and the drumming ends in a native flourish

on what I’d call a happy social note.

Yet another brave attempt to divine the meaning,

the genesis of my pain.

My coiled bones.