Mireille Eid

A Gift


Sinister causes
Etched on her back
An organ
Whipping up screams
And splinters of others?
They hide in her crevices
Salt for the beloved
A gift gone astray.

Her hands
Frail as a halo
Pick the scattered bones
Epiphany for the injured
Jabbing needles in vain

Repetition is unforgiving
For a high priestess
On communion days

And there’s much to learn
From the one with no laughter
And a heart that beats
for hearses
Wounded ponderings
and Stones.

She probes
Sanity and ellipses
For survival
Is a game she learnt to play
With scalpels
Sterile and ready
On shiny trays.


©Mireille Eid


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