The virus

Every day she measures the sugar 

      and gluten--she is so careful.

Every night she mixes petals and seeds 

      and blends them with the unsweetened blood

            of a pomegranate. 

Every noon she comes down on her knees

      and palms into a down-ward facing dog

and the 33 bones of her spine from her skull

      to her coccyx curl then straighten 

like a ladder directly into the arms of

      long life--longevity belongs to this body. 

It ferments in her seeds, her tailbone,

      her sour blood-red juice. 

All would have grown stronger day by day,

        drink by drink, 

               downward-facing by downward facing

had not that virus, that thing both dead and alive,

      not awakened in the darkness under

            her diligently examined breast.