The Wound

The tenth day, and they give

my mirror back. Who knows

how to drink pain, and live?

I look, and the glass shows

the truth, fine as a hair,

of the scalpel's wounding care.

A round reproach to all

that's warped, uncertain, clouded,

the sun climbs. On the wall,

by the racked body shrouded

in pain, is a shadow thrown;

simple, unchanged, my own.

Body, on whom the claims

of spirit fall to inspire

and terrify, there flames

at your least breath a fire

of anguish, not for this pain,

but that scars will remain.

You will be loved no less.

Spirit can build, make shift

with what there is, and press

pain to its mould; will lift

from your crucible of night

a form dripping with light.

Felix culpa. The sun

lights in my flesh the great

wound of the world. What's done

is done. In man's estate

let my flawed wholeness prove

the art and scope of love.