Selective Healing

The voice I have
when I am sick,
when the fever will not leave
and my eyes burn like promises from hell,
when my mind can not stay focused
on love or hate or the book that lives
in my lap,

that voice,
low, dark, gravelly,
the voice of someone who knows,
a quiet deep voice of authority,
that voice

is the one I wish was mine
on the days when the sun
filled my body
and the germs fled
like mice from a cat.

A new drug is needed,
I think,
selective healing,
to make us almost well
except for the broken parts
we adore.

About this poem

I’m still fighting whatever this is that I am fighting. I’m not sure if I am better or not, but I have a deep rattling voice that I wish was mine all the time. Which got me to thinking that despite the fact that most of us are working to get better, I’d never want to get perfect. There are some flaws and scars I embrace.

Which is fine. I’m in no danger of perfection in this lifetime.

Tom