TITLE: The Groaning Board By Anthony Bowman 04/05/07 |
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11:50a – The call –
for the shining of lights
in the backs of closets and corners
best left unlit. “The Savior calls!”
cries the modest man; eyes
probing, words burning;
I sit transfixed, afraid to look,
or look away.
Is this my day for a trip
to the rail; past
the masses wondering
if today is their day too?
breathlessly we wait.
But this won’t be my day –
it never is. This man
has not yet learned the merits
of this age-old ritual
of weeping and wood
that comes so easy to others –
the stripping of souls.
The alter of oak
bleeds today. Humbled
hearts are opened to the Sacred
Surgeon (the Doctor is always in).
Probing the cores and crevices;
the practiced Hand removing,
rebuilding – reliving
the incarnation, necessary dying
and rising - while still
my cancer grows.
The songs quiet, prayer is invoked
and the holy kiss is passed.
In the hush I rise and walk, past
the seat of carnage
and comfort – past the groaning board
again.
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