On the day of diagnosis
I looked at my nails, bit past the quick
and the point of stopping,
as a cloud spoke to the sun
and said, "Now we will see
the Hand of God."
From an empty beach bench
I watch low mountains of grey waves
circle the crab fisher's rocks
in swirls of creamed light.
Any and all un-netted disease cast
far from the glistening shore.
If it were my faith, un-weaved
and un-woven, the sky
would settle on the sea a stranger
and the sparse wind let balloons escape
their strings, but timely mother hurries to the hospital bed
with painted flowers, whispering hope,
un-faded and unfazed.
The wake up call
is not for God never slumbering,
nor for blood cells efficient,
serene, and rightly numerous.
It is for the promise maker,
the singer of songs,
the vigilante stirring home fire,
pressing candles, daring
to smile in the antiseptic mask.