Path 5: The Wounded Healer

Sunset in winter

dry air yields the familiar experience of a nosebleed

warm red silk trying to flow through

They have to inhale quickly to keep me

from dripping down the face.

If you smell blood

you’ll discover iron.

That strong metal

that penetrates Mars with a seemingly incandescent red,

which brings us back to topic of polite facial hemorrhages.

But... some wounds aren’t red.

Many injuries persist, even without a scar left behind

unless you note the thirst that creeps

into the heart, somewhere

among a mess of neural tissue that sits behind the eyes.

It’s not uncommon for a parent, spouse, child

a person who has loved, to say:

“It should have been me!”

“...I wish I would have instead.”

“Why did it have to be them?”

Unfortunately, our physiological iron wine isn’t always donatable

similarly to first breaths in a

summer morning.

Thousands of times I have lost myself

I have spilled my strength, rended my skin, and powdered my bones.

My thirst is unquenchable

my body

unrecognizable.

I see them, before their inevitable pain

afterwards I let them drink from me

because a gift is never a loss.