Karen Holman
Letter to the Wound Dresser

Photograph by Michael Moreth

I lay in the sun like compost,
steam rising from soup,
in such terrible singing I knew
there was no God. Yet I died
and saw his face.
He kissed my hand
then pressed his beard
against my cheek,
so a valve gave way
and the steam of my urine
met the steam of my blood.
I woke thinking I felt his
beard again on my face,
but it was flies
democratic as the mercy of God.