Water from the Rock

They said the desert would finish me,

that the map would end here.

CT scans are machinery for reason.

To spot the clue.

The numbers casted heavy with fatality.

Chicken scratch of my uterus drawn on the papers labeled “ malignant mass”

by the doctor’s hand made it more real.

He made sure of that.

But You had a plan. You purposed that plan.

You have never stayed on terrain, or where logic shakes its fists.

Instead, you struck the rock of impossibility,

not gently,

but with the authority of I AM.

And what bled from stone

was not droplets of mercy —

but gulps.

Life came rushing where death tried to claim me.

My cells obeyed You.

Malignancy feared you.

What should have been a grave today,

became a well for tomorrow.

Let them call it remission,

statistics, false shadows, anomaly—

I know the sound of water in the wilderness,

and the Rock that refuses to let deserts

have the final word.