Wound Healing

My doctor-wife squeezes

her needle-nose tweezers

and lifts the tiny knots

high enough to snip with

surgical scissors, the week

old wound on my shoulder

healed pink and clean.

Then she grasps each

nylon filament and makes

a quick, sharp tug, her

creased brow signaling

she is sorry for each sting.

But I tell her not to worry

about me, that my pain

can’t compare to how

I have wounded her,

her scars mended by the

force of forgiveness,

both of us bound tighter,

than any sutured wound.