Heal Poem by Sojourner Kincaid Rolle

There is that time
when the pronouncements of surgeons
count not nearly as much as a whispered hope
when the fingers wielding scapel
can neither put back nor rejoin.
Herein is the real domain of the creator;
the building of the sinew,
the melding of synapse.

We grasp for life.
It is a involuntariness of human
outstretched fingers
reaching into the abyss - risking failure
knowing it is the welding power of love that must
reach into the sinew, across the synapse;
burning white hot,
warming the cooling bed.