by Taylor Graham

    The blunt short wand interrogates
    my knee, a pain I can't answer.
    The man in scrubs is waiting
    for me to say it hurts. But
    I came for healing.

    In another room, someone's being
    fixed by laser, getting back
    his eyes. Light, sound, touch
    do things I'll never understand.
    But, on trust, tomorrow

    I'll walk better than today.
    Grateful that my knee accepts
    a magic that digs as deep
    as inquisition,
    I step down

    and out the door, where light
    goes greening sourgrass and
    birds spring songs
    like every morning new
    beyond my hands.

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