There are words that cling to my soul and ride it high

The way that a slight frown now carved into my high breast

Will ride and ride

And deep in the recesses of my arm pit

An exit wound where precious

Pearly nodes were extracted

Dripping life fluids

Set to guard and prognosticate my seed stitched days

New sweet channels wend and grab

And blessed

I wonder however I may choose

Display with pride

And not double dare to live

perhaps

Choose ink embroideries

Choose scarred words sacred not scared

As the surgeon so gently pronounced

Almost as an afterthought

There will be scars

And suddenly

There were Jesus and Thomas

And Mary and the old gang

to testify to divine language of wounds