A bruised
reed he will not break,
and a dimly
burning wick he will not quench;
he will
faithfully bring forth justice.
Isaiah 42:3
How afraid we are
of the dark—
the blue-green
shade which blooms
on our thigh, from
the hidden table corner
or the hand which
strikes,
a word slashing
the heart—
we experience it
all.
Even an unseen
bruise
evidences blood
roused
by inevitable
surprise.
Perhaps we come to
expect it—
wounds received
again and again
as if, like a
sacrament—
until they define
us.
Hurt circulates by
blood
as breath does,
and Grace blooms
by its own surprise:
gift of tears,
embrace of
ourselves—
the magic kiss
a mother offers
her child,
true comfort in
darkness
even if it can't
make the pain go
away.
