Anointed, gifted, uplifted,
By the whispers of those,
Who shyly spill their lives to me.
They seek succor for warts,
Injured hearts, sun-burned parts,
Other sundry mundane ills,
That all endure.
The sick, the seeking,
I assist them,
Question them,
Comfort them,
Treat them as best I can.
And rarely,
One will, unawares,
Slip me a miraculous, disquieting,
Sky-soaring gift.
As I gently cover,
And pronounce a family’s grandpa dead,
Wash the Sister’s,
Slipped-at-recess bleeding knee,
Towel dry,
The squalling newborn’s head.
I feel my finite self jolt,
Split several,
Take flight and rise.
I slip, slide, glide through time,
Fly right out of my own brain.
I see the old veteran, peacefully still.
Close his eyes with respectful fingers.
Now he is a dry-skinned corpse,
Yet as I touch his papery husk,
I am gripped by the sight of him,
Vigorous at twenty-two.
Vibrant, valiant,
He is incandescent,
Shouting orders to his troops,
In the Battle of la Drang,
At treacherous dusk.
Then a flash of him triumphant,
Months later in Boston,
Kissing his ecstatic bride.
The Sacrosanct Sister?
I see her choosing,
God and virginity,
Over another kind of life
As a small-town wife.
I watch her teaching,
Her classful of wriggling children,
She’s feeling gently pleased,
At her singular lot in life.
The squalling, squirming,
Black-haired babe?
As impossible as it seems,
I suddenly spot her;
Space-suited, celestially rooted,
Tending solar panels,
In the airless perimeter of Mars,
Fulfilling her fantastic,
Iconoclastic,
Adventurous scientist dreams.
At first I was both
Shaken and alarmed.
Years living the oath,
Have taught my heart,
That glimpses like these,
Do no one harm.
Paula Lyons, MD
5/5/20
11//12/85
1/14/10
6/7/2014