The Wound

Now and again it opens and bleeds
And hurts
And then it will close and be
Silent, unharming, dormant,
Latent in its hidden personality
But a memory as a piece
Of salt will rub it and
Open it and it will freely run
With fluid pain.  I must
Bear it, this thing, this
Self-inflicted wound that I can
Neither ignore nor rub-out for
It is part of me now, a
Hidden limb and within my
Transfiguring I must
Hold it to me the way I do
Those other ones inflicted from
Outwith by others' hands -
They all are mine these
Hidden works of enemy hands, they
Make me what I am.  To
Move on I must learn
To carry them
Lightly, accept their imperfection
And let them
Be what they are:
The marks of my
Life, the
Stigmata of my
Purpose worked
And scored in unseen pain.
I am the woman
Sanctified in them.

previous poem