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even as it heals, gifted hands first
kneading, pressure that increases
till the poisons locked inside
the muscle seek escape into the
atmosphere of Oriental music
playing softly in the background,
fit accompaniment to my groans.
Similar to this, God's sculpting
of our lives, not always pleasant as
he shapes our sinful flesh to fit inside
his hand, adapting circumstances
so they fall within parameters
of plans he laid before the
earth was even born. Burly Karl had
me on his table for an hour;
more than once he made a comment
when I winced beneath his touch.
I wonder if God even cares much that
I am tender there, and there, and there
when he begins to push and prod
or if, since he is Love himself,
he only sees the end result, finished
product to reveal somewhere in
distant futures yet unseen. Does this
make him mean or does it make him smile
as he picks up celestial tools to
chip away a little more of hardness,
granite layers I have gathered round
me like the sheet on Karl's table?
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
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