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My doctor-wife squeezes her needle-nose tweezers and lifts the tiny knots high enough to snip with surgical scissors...
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.