SHE SMILED
She smiled but said, Put the poem down.
Let it age and blister, the infected
places come aboil. Draw the ancient
lance across the pustular skin of the thing.
Debride the sapping tissue, the worm that wraps
the bone, until you see the shiny tendon.
Overlook the blood that runs into the thick
white sheet. She quivers, still, this Nightingale,
sharp tray of tools cocked at her side.