Blown veins bruise white marble arms, reveal
the soft ache where I turn into blue jade.

Unmovable, I’m poised in hell, burning in trance, 
a placid lotus glimmering on a pond’s surface.

Center myself, find it temperate, find anything
tolerable, my heart of stone steals no extrinsic heat.

With crossed legs, open palm, facing the heater,
lost, I float stoic on the deep navy sea of my floor.

In my skull migraine blood pours as rivers, ripples
through ancient memories, panning through 

dark hours for light. A daily ritual to self-immolate,
then wade through the water to get clean again.

What a relic of suffering I’ve become in the process,
carved down into this small, sharp memorial statue. 

Grotesquely serene, like a little gisant when I sleep,
my eyes stay open as though I’m already dead.