Cleansed Poem by Melissa Morphew

I’m looking for the perfect
love, a raspberry briar
siphoned to the surface of a toe
with bacon fat, the relief,
the magic of old wisdom
when there is no reason
for the stone from the white deer’s belly
to draw out the fever
but the forehead cools
and the evidence waits in the April water
of a rain barrel, a thin yellow
line of pus, the remnants of the wound,
and I keep the stone to remember
because nothing marks my body,
smooth as river slate.