by Jonathan Hunter-Kilmer
my weakened head
suspended
neck low lolling
difficult
to swallow look around
or think
thoughts numbed as by a cult
an evil
an assault
or muscles deadened
still Your will
I wait and listen
wondering
should I
choke down a pill
they work much less
and when my mind
is tangling with dread
a visit
prone
in sanctuary
gets my fagged cells fed
Beloved, is this a test
or
once again
is something wrong
and can the medicine to fix it
work
or just prolong
is patient waiting
huddled in Your arms
mind focused
breathe
and inhale Your relaxing breath
while terrors round me seethe
let crimson force
defend Your poor bride's
quailing heart
at sea
in crashing waves
until You let back
cool tranguility
and Your hands
stroke and succor
I may not feel but I know
that in them rest
my panting breast
as surely as I grow
and venture forth
still in Your arms
with trepidatious step
I do Your work
a joyous perk
cured in Your strength I've leapt