His blood stains the sheets,
dribbles to his shoe and the buffed tile floor,
scarlet life drained from cells scraped between edge
of a feed cart and tossing snout of a sow, but he tells the nurse
he hadn’t really felt anything when it happened, just
had seen inside himself, deeper than the pulpy red, down to the white strands,
so the doctor dips white gauze
Into pink antiseptic and washes away the memory, freezes the flap
Of epidermis with her needle of steel, and peels back the torn skin for a look
And yes, you’ve severed the tendons.
With bandaged hand, two prescriptions, and an appointment for the specialist
We head home and I turn to him, arm in sling, and ask,
And he turns to me, heart in throat, and nods, “God is good.”
And we fill the prescription and through the night I bring trios of tylenol tablets
But it’s only those three words about who He is and real reality,
that can ever ease
the pain into poetry.
More: Learn to Lament
Friday is for Random Acts of Poetry … consider visiting High Calling for more processing with words
Photo: Farmer Husband’s stitched up thumb… We wait for healing knowing
God only gives good gifts.
