Strategist Poem by Arundhathi Subramaniam

The trick to deal
with a body under siege
is to keep things moving,

to be juggler
at the moment
when all the balls are up in the air,
a whirling polka of asteroids and moons,

to be metrician of the innards,
calibrating the jostle
and squelch of commerce
in those places where blood
meets feeling.

Fear.
Chill in the joints,
primal rheumatism.

Envy.
The marrow igloos
into windowlessness.

Regret.
Time stops in the throat.
A piercing fishbone recollection
of the sea.

Rage.
Old friend.
Ambassador to the world
that I am.

The trick is not to noun
yourself into corners.
Water the plants.
Go for a walk.
Inhabit the verb.