Centrifuge by Stephen Kingsnorth

Stephen Kingsnorth | Aug 12th, 2020 | poetry | No Comments


No number, but her name referred,
the consultation, self-engaged,
examination shared from couch,
no stethoscope to scope her life;
how fathom symptomatic cause,
white coat and clock, long queue outside?

A mystery, science suspense,
that homeopathy, so strange,
our H20 dilute, again,
so less and less of core retained,
a molecule, split atomised –
is this medicament with strings?

Unless placebo, psyche turned,
convinced by spin of advocates,
the lingua franca fake news streets,
is this a woman pressed, depressed,
hemmed in, who reaches for the hem?
Naive, quack final hope of cure,
caught in the web, internet lore,
cash scripts from lucre-greedy stores,
the last oasis for the poor?

Rash freckles, her consultant’s guide,
with chart like zodiacal map,
mesh matrix, flesh tones, fuzzy hair,
some wizardry with alchemy;
gold spice for water, centrifuge,
add faith, despair, alternative.

A curse for my beloved proof,
fresh mindset for renaissance style,
that evidential course of health
where logic’s king, this paradox.
A bitter pill with nothing in
save time to find relationship?

Poet Bio

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had over 150 pieces published by on-line poetry sites, including Poetry Potion, printed journals and anthologies.

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