ANSWER WE

On the day of diagnosis

I looked at my nails, bit past the quick

and the point of stopping,

as a cloud spoke to the sun

and said, "Now we will see

the Hand of God."

From an empty beach bench

I watch low mountains of grey waves 

circle the crab fisher's rocks

in swirls of creamed light.

Any and all un-netted disease cast

far from the glistening shore.

If it were my faith, un-weaved

and un-woven, the sky

would settle on the sea a stranger

and the sparse wind let balloons escape

their strings, but timely mother hurries to the hospital bed

with painted flowers, whispering hope,

un-faded and unfazed.

The wake up call

is not for God never slumbering,

nor for blood cells efficient,

serene, and rightly numerous.

It is for the promise maker,

the singer of songs,

the vigilante stirring home fire,

pressing candles, daring

to smile in the antiseptic mask.