They arrive early,
piercing childhood
the way arrows strike the sides
of deer as they raise
their necks from a forest pond:
The stare, the arrow only deep
enough to wound, the zag,
the stumble, the escape,
the emerging scar.
Wounds fold inside
us in jagged rows
the way skin gathers at the bleed,
or ground seams where
grave diggers have shoveled.
Patients beg that we absorb their blood,
replace their tears,
drink their pain,
as if we could turn
cut hearts
into origami angels.
Yes, Love can cancel tears.
But, wounds always scar.
What affect do your scars have on your world view? How do you accept the Love as a healing force?
-Erie Chapman

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