Wounds

These are wounds and wounds
of flesh unraveling.
Who can heal these unseen wounds?
Who can find the healing balm
to take away the sting?

From whence comes the medicated gauze
that will wrap around the swelling
red flesh of memory,
the split lip that bleeds even now
through lines of white scar?

Who will tenderly hold the
bleeding heart that cries
rivers of innocence?

Not me, says father,
I was not there.

Not me, says sister,
Let things be.

It’s too late, says brother,
I didn’t know.

I never knew, says mother,
I’m sorry.

All hearts cry when pinched
with truth
if they are open enough
to feel the raw sting
truth brings.

If not, they see
simply what they wish:
the illusion of normal.

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