Wounded Healer: A Poem
For twelve years, my belly held the ache of a bitten apple. Hardened seed-clots veined my thighs and coalesced on the surgeon’s floor. They sponged up my mess and my coins flickered between their fingers—lepton, tyre shekel, silver spiked with eagle talons. Herod’s bulbous silhouette pressed into their palms
as they sent me to walk the outskirts of the temple, barring me from barest devotion,
from even kneeling
before a candle. I was made of blood and salt that wept from my outstretched hands.
Then, I saw him. Browning in the sun, dust on
His feet, He knew my wounds. He would bleed for me. The hem of His robe was the fabric of my faith—I reached for it and He knew me.
Saw me trembling there. Healed me at last.