Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch

We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy “boo-boo!,” only two.

We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.

We just don’t want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion.
                                                O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries . . .

Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, “It’s me I see. Just me.”

He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures,
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.
But hack him down and still he’ll always rise,
lifting his smile to the sun or the star-filled skies.

Published by Lucid Rhythms, The Eclectic Muse and Victorian Violet Press, then nominated by the latter for the Pushcart Prize

Keywords/Tags: Angels, baseball, ****** reconstruction, surgery, operation, God, scars, tears, courage, mirror, smile, date, dating, dog, attack, dogs, happy ending

feeling so small,
and powerless.
Holding tight to my row boat,
As the dark ocean waters,
storm both sides.
My matted hair, soaked,
covering my eyes.
I sail alone,
without direction.

and they want to cut me open.
take away what i was born with.

my therapist said we are all butterflies.
transforming, changing.
metaphorically.

but some of us,
are changing,
biologically.
under a knife.
to save our life.

and that is the hardest metamorphosis,
i can think of.

These scars lay on my skin
Delicately placed by surgical blades
Carefully crafted into my skin
They are art
They are a part of me
As always
I love these residual lacerations
This brail across my body
Telling my story for me
To those primed to receive it
The soft pink tissue raises slightly on my right
Agitated and stretched
Red from my inability to afford
Additional healing time away from work
Imperfect
Uneven
Visible
Beautiful
I love these pieces of myself
I love watching their journey
Through recovery and lifting
Feeling the changes tingle across my skin
As my body begins to trust me again

Alone in my terminal
transformed by the scalpel
the mirror is my surgeon
and youth my captor
love is eternal
still, how can a heart be mended
if the demand is evergreen.

24 begins with its cruel rule:
"No sustenance or quenching of thirst
until the sad/happy day passes."

Caring women with initials enter
Poking, prodding, asking the same questions,
While loved ones nervously watch.

Close friends, friends, and strangers
Phone and visit, offering their comforting words.
"We love you."  "We're praying for you."
"Make a pact with God."  "Chin up!"  "Happy Birthday!"

Their messages intermingle with disquieting thoughts
Of hopes and dreams left unfulfilled.
"Why me?"  "What now?"  "I knew it was too good to be true."
As hunger gnaws, and expectation is postponed.

A caring woman with initials enters one last time,
Poking, prodding, asking the same questions,
As the pushers of the bed arrive with their benign smiles.

Unwanted darkness returns,
As uncommon mortals work at their bizarre craft,
Opening the golden bowl,
Exposing its precious contents.

East and West Coast loved ones,
Separated by time and circumstance,
Carry on their prayerful vigil.

As 24 continues,
Surrounded by love,
Sustained by hope.

Bought somethings that you want
Hated the things that you need
It's all pretty and fun
Puckering up your small *** lips
But once the sun hit
You can't refund it.

You felt uncomfortable in your own skin
And your body is too ******* thin
But just so you know
That women and men
Aren't supposed to be treated like this.

God made us perfect in every inch
Of our face, of our legs, of our hands
But beauty is all that people dreams
Perfect is all that people think.

If you aspire to renovate every inch of your body,
Then where's the girl that she used to be?
Where's the guy that I used to see?
Where's the heart that used to be free?