IS
THERE NO BALM IN GILEAD?
“You’re
allergic to coffee,” the specialist says.
I
had been wondering about those skin rashes—roseate, swollen, itchy.
I
thought I had been bitten by a tarantula.
Blister
clusters filled with aqueous liquid,
They
popped painfully.
Morbidly,
I had imagined I was leprous, beseeching
Saint Damien of Molokai to deliver me.
“Take
this pill after breakfast, this one twice a day.” He adds,
“Apply
this cream after your bath.”
Pausing
as if to ponder the fallibility of medicine,
“Come
back to see me after two weeks.”
I
muse that capricious Nature would be tamed
By
Science, no less, methodical knife
That
is as much the geyser of serendipity
Or
Providence’s boon as it is purported genius.
I
console myself that descending clouds
Hide
blessings. Afflictions work miracles…
A
broken leg is the first step of a spiritual journey…
An
ambitious man turns into a holy fool…
A
widow in penury transforms into a horn of plenty.
Reversals
abound. A bold man serves lepers,
Is
himself ravaged by leprosy—blamelessly, ostensibly.
His
pustules and ulcers, like rutted soil,
Bear
fruit, nourishing ears of generosity, sweet stalks
Of
charity, miracles wrought by the dying.
Hapless
in life, he works miracles after death…
A
woman prays to the saint, her cancer vanishes.
Turning
a corner sharply, a nurse, smartly pressed,
Head-to-toe
white, pushes a wheelchair, smoothly gliding. Riding,
Unshaven,
a befuddled old man wrapped in a moist bathrobe.
Fronting
the glass doorway, his limousine pulls up, gleaming.
He
rises, his back twisted, a drooping flower.
Drooling,
his head bobs uncontrollably.
Pierced
by unspeakable mystery, wounded, stricken bird,
I
shuffle outside, sky neither gray nor blue.
Sighing,
“I guess I’ll have to drink tea instead.”
Originally
published in Poydras Review (April
20, 2015)
 |
| Father Damien of Molokai |
