there is a comfort in unrecognizable shapes, blended colors, deaf words

by rrim17

And as a surgeon to his dying son,
With shaking hands and a conflict of interest,
I press my hands to my wound and attempt to staunch the bleeding;
“You will be okay,” I plead with myself. “You will be okay.”
Bandaging the hurting with my stained-glass words
Praying no one will point out their inadequacy
While Nature asks of me the unnatural—
To allow myself to be tossed by greater Hands
To restrain from an antibiotic for the pain
But instead to wait
And to trust
That I am made of more than fleeing blood
More than shipwrecked pride
More than a beggar’s alms

 

This surgeon without her latex on is afraid of cutting too deeply.