The medium scans my chakras for ghosts

emily Lake hansen

i.

The medium tells me first to imagine a lotus
opening above my head. That’s the crown,
she says, and touches me gingerly.
My husband, a scientist, told me
the other day that we’re never truly
touching. There’s always space, he tried
to explain, atoms, electrons — it hurt
to think of things I couldn't hold — floating
between our intertwined hands.
 

ii.

My third eye always hurts, I tell her,
as she presses her fingers to the bridge
of my nose. That’s where the sinus
cavities sit, I learned, talking to a teladoc
once over the phone. I’m allergic
to two antibiotics, I had to explain,
before he could prescribe something
to cure the infection, relieve the pain. 
 

iii.

On a small table, a plate of crystals
splay out like a dinner between us.
She lights a candle in a tiny gold
cup. I watch the flame and my feet
go numb. She runs her hands
along my throat, there’s speech
in your aura. When I focus,
I can feel each heart beat
like a fist inside my throat.
 

iv.

It’s at my heart line that she sees
my grandmother: just a quick glimpse
of her profile, her dark curly hair
framing her cheeks. My therapist
has been telling me about attachment,
how we become whole when we learn
to trust someone will respond
to our needs. My grandmother
was the first to hold me, I remember
suddenly, to rub my face
with the palms of her hands.
 

v.

Later, the woman lays crystals
along the center of my body.
At the top of my stomach, whatever
it is feels oval. I imagine a gallstone,
the one that got trapped in my bile duct
like a ring in a drain. It hurt for weeks
before a doctor finally fished it out
with scoop and string. Ah, there
it is! he proclaimed like a magician.
When the woman lays her hands
across my ribs all I can think
is how to breathe.
 

vi.

At the sacral point — she describes
it as a seat of the senses — I begin
to sink, my body lowering into
a tarpit on the table. I’m immobile
as a building and to survive it
I imagine an ocean: rocky waves,
opaque as a tomb, some seabird
floating on its surface. I’m all
earth here, her hands now resting
on my hips. I grew children
where she’s touching, the way
the ground grows trees
from seeds and twigs.
 

vii.

Imagine roots, she says, at my feet,
the last place she touches, this
is where you begin. But I’ve killed
every plant I’ve ever tried to grow.
My grandmother once planted
a spring garden in our backyard:
sunflowers and yarrow — she knew
what could survive neglect —
purple geraniums blooming until June.