Tuesday, December 2, 2014

The Surgery

In honor of a marriage 

Adam named the animals
when the earth was a story still warm off the presses
and the sun was a matchstick standing in a sea of ink.
There was no name for the splinter in his heart.

God called it “being alone,” though He was there,
holding Adam’s hand. “Why don’t you rest?” He asked,
and the man, whose heart was bleeding
though he did not know what bleeding was,
lay down his unscarred body on the dewy ground.

The surgery of marriage—
the parts removed, the pieces reunited—
plays out again, again, in history and chapels,
the operating theaters that offer us onlookers a view
of the bloody work of God,
the rigor of a gentle hand,
the violence of the kind of love that saves a man
from the splinters of his self and sin by breaking bone.