She inspects a slice of me I cannot see.
Then she grasps, holds it warmly,
tells me that this is an exceptional bit.
Oh, it is larger than I, her care,
when her love comes, all of my bad wiring
starts to fuse and repair itself.
Almost whole, I get this gorgeous dark blue
soft sheet, the antithetical of my regular,
heavy, wet wool blanket,
the sheet making me tingle and shiver in eminency
with the most powerful love.
Can I save all of this? I ask every time,
but she tells me I was not made to tingle
with love all of the time. I was made to
blow up in joy when it comes,
however rarely it comes,
to hurt at all the other times,
and to help others to soothe their hurt,
removing mine while soothing theirs.
She tells me there is hurt everywhere,
sometimes hidden in ugly power,
power that radiates the worst sickness,
and I am responsible for helping.
With the last of those vibrant tingles,
as joy makes me shiver and collapse in orgasm,
I remember that I would be nothing without
my angel’s visits, as infrequent as they may be,
but I hate that I cannot extricate
all of the hurt of all of the world,
working to remember to take smallest steps.
To smile, to breathe, to go slowly.
This is another in a series that I hope will last forever. Here are the prior poems: