Sojourner Kincaid Rolle
Heal - Poem by Sojourner Kincaid Rolle
There is that time
when the pronouncements of surgeons
count not nearly as much as a whispered hope
when the fingers wielding scapel
can neither put back nor rejoin.
Herein is the real domain of the creator;
the building of the sinew,
the melding of synapse.
We grasp for life.
It is a involuntariness of human
reaching into the abyss - risking failure
knowing it is the welding power of love that must
reach into the sinew, across the synapse;
burning white hot,
warming the cooling bed.
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