No twelve-year issue
Of blood
We do not have
The certainty of the father
The faith of the woman
Touching His hem
For the healing
And the rising
Not for us the definite
Unquestionable answer
We have had expensive treatment
For life’s most chronic ills
Returning now outpatients
Of uncertain futures
Not as well healed
As we had hoped
We sit at table
In the thunderstorm
Shielding ourselves
From its ferocious drenching
Shielding our souls
Staring from vacated minds
Sharing disconnected phrases
In the hope that something
Kind will arrive to occupy
The emptiness
But no such guest has come
Or else we were not at home
To grant it entry
When it called
And in the passing
Of the storm we part
Without a word walking
With unhurried steps
On different paths
Seeking ourselves
In places where we had not
Searched before
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