Making Senses

I hear them whispering in the hallway,
Hear the footsteps fall as they come and go;
I see them slip in checking her vitals,
Scanning the labels, tapping displays. And though
I taste faith in the men with the titles,
Who’ve done this thing five hundred times before,
I smell the stem cells being pressed through her veins
Like garlic—strong and strange and sickly-sweet.
They plume from pores above bone-deep domains;
Engulfed, I dissolve like a storm-battered beach.
At length, I touch her arm, play then with her hair,
And feel beyond the realm where senses reach,
A love strong as death, immune to decay,
That steadies my heart and moves me to pray.

5 thoughts on “Making Senses

  1. Emmanuel, God with us, who came to bear our pain as the Man of Sorrows, is with you. Thank you for sharing with us Kyle. This is beautiful, in a raw and visceral way.

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  2. Lord, You know her case, and know the healing art. Lord, May Kyle find Your mighty arm which holds him evermore (hymn 285, vs 2-3)

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