“A Prayer for Platelets”

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I. Bruised

Did you bump into

something—a table’s edge

or a low bench?

That’s a nasty one:

bluish-purple with

greenish-yellow.

More than a week’s time,

still fading.

I am delicate,

easily bruised,

like a peach

left on the counter

to ripen.

 

II. Scarred

After the last time,

I waited eight weeks to return,

no longer believing the things

they told me

about myself.

I am not heroic.

I am not selfless.

I am merely struggling to be

optimistic.

I have enough to give,

but it takes me a while

to convince myself

to try again.

 

III. Healed

Eight weeks.

I love the number

that turned upside-down

remains true to itself,

that turned on its side

becomes infinite.

My hope returns,

my fear abates.

Do not touch the bruise.

Do not examine the scar.

Wait: and dream

of the future,

when he is healed.

 

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