The COVID-19 pandemic dominated the globe for at least three years, and infected a large proportion of the worldwide population. After the acute infection, many stay in poor health for months. The nature of this aftermath is not yet fully understood, therefore the management of this syndrome through biomedical therapy is not ideal. Health services are struggling to help those who are still suffering. The condition has now been recognised as post-COVID-19 syndrome (PCS) — providing a common platform for academic exchange.Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) has been applied to similar conditions for over 2,000 years, including in the aftermath of previous pandemics, and this understanding of such conditions has been validated in clinical practice. In TCM, patterns are established to group the weakness, the residue of pathogens or interaction between pathogens and the defence system. Those patterns form the framework for understanding the illness after acute infections. The authors use this ancient understanding in their own contemporary practice, which is particularly rewarding when the illness within PCS is treated with acupuncture, Chinese herbs, and other therapies in tandem. This is the holistic TCM approach strongly recommended by the authors as they demonstrate great outcomes. The whole-system TCM approach for PCS is now presented in this book to health professions for PCS.

In Lapis, poet Kerri Webster writes into the vast space left by the deaths of three women: her mother, a mentor, and a friend. Using a wide array of lyric forms and meditations, Webster explores matrilineages both familial and poetic, weaving together death, spirituality, women, and a sense of the shifting earth into one "doctrine of Non-linear Revelation."

Song of the Husbands for Henry All winter the kind husbands hover like mortgaged angels. One smells gasoline in his sleep, would be my lover. They want me to be well. Specimen, they say, and mean endearment. I row into the flood. The vodka turns the lemon to crystal, the carp turn the pond to shit and hunger, the lingerie turns the trunkful of lingerie into a special trunk. And the husbands, the husbands If asked they will install a water feature. I tend my minor art, I push my sorrow cart, the women sing to the women o'er the prison walls: Daughters of Elysium!: as I elysium myself to sleep and, waking, wear a poppy cast from silver around my neck. I grow ashamed of my teeth, I pawn, redeem, pawn, redeem, shoo deer from the poison hedge. Oh leanmost season. Speak, husbands; speak, cocked honeys; speak! "I'm learning to allow for visions," the primary speaker of The Trailhead announces, setting out through a landscape populated by swan-killers, war torturers, and kings. Much of the book takes place in the contemporary American West, and these poems reckon with the violence inherent in that place. A "conversion narrative" of sorts, the book examines the self as a "burned-over district," individual and cultural pain as a crucible in which the book's sibyls and spinsters are remade, transfigured. "Sacralization/is when things become holy, also/when vertebrae fuse," the book tells us, pulling at the tensions between secular and sacred embodiment, exposing the essential difficulty of being a speaking woman. The collection arrives at a taut, gendered calling - a firm faith in the power and worth of the female voice - and a broader faith in poetry not as a vehicle of atonement or expiation, but as bulwark against our frailties and failings.

In Lapis, poet Kerri Webster writes into the vast space left by the deaths of three women: her mother, a mentor, and a friend. Using a wide array of lyric forms and meditations, Webster explores matrilineages both familial and poetic, weaving together death, spirituality, women, and a sense of the shifting earth into one "doctrine of Non-linear Revelation."

"What desire doesn't seem as of the distance across a sea?" asks the voice in Kerri Webster's debut collection of poetry, even as the poems attempt the transformation of that liminal space wherein word meets sense, loneliness meets solitude, and surface meets interior. Here, "the surface is our signature," and the image of stain presents a way for that surface to reflect that which it conceals. In this space, human intimacy encounters the transience and frailty of language, and through these encounters we discover that grace lies in "believing always in imprint."

"I'm learning to allow for visions," the primary speaker of The Trailhead announces, setting out through a landscape populated by swan-killers, war torturers, and kings. Much of the book takes place in the contemporary American West, and these poems reckon with the violence inherent in that history. A "conversion narrative" of sorts, the book examines the self as a "burned-over district," individual and cultural pain as a crucible in which the book's sibyls and spinsters are remade, transfigured. Sacralization/is when things become holy, also/when vertebrae fuse," the book tells us, pulling at the tensions between secular and sacred embodiment, exposing the essential difficulty of being a speaking woman. The collection arrives at a taut, gendered calling-a firm faith in the power and worth of the female voice-and a broader faith in poetry not as a vehicle of atonement or expiation, but as bulwark against our frailties and failings.

From the intersection of public and private fear, Kerri Webster's award-winning collection speaks of anxiety and awe, vanishings and reappearances. A city both rises and falls; worlds are simultaneously spoken into being and torn down by words. 'This is how time sounds,' Webster writes; this is the hum and click of bodies 'desirous of believing we're all vehicle, every wet atom of us,' even as the saved seeds root in the fallen brickwork and the artifacts pile up: wisdom teeth, hummingbird skulls, plumb bobs, icons, antlers, incandescent bulbs. Grand & Arsenal begins 'Bless me I am not myself,' but it is not long before the probability of being blessed is revealed to be as remote as the concept of a whole self. Thus begins the book's defining struggle, enacted by a multitude of voices which move from rush to stumble and back again--meanwhile using all the tools we as a culture use to hold fear at arm's length. We hear a familiar irony, as in 'On a trip West, porn in the hotel room. I can take or leave it. The climax that puts me in the seats? World's end.' We hear humor, as in 'I believed in . . . / . . . a certain apocalypse not so much foretold as crafted / by large-brained monkeys.' We hear understatement, as in 'knowing it does not matter / in the grand--she would say scheme, I would say / mishap--.' Most importantly, though, these poems allow for the fleeting triumph of an undefended voice, which appears often to emerge tentatively from a sort of exhausted collapse.