Triage

The assignment for my poetry group was the subject "Triage." I know NOTHING about medicine....

Can the patient be saved?
Depends on what you mean.
Her immortal soul? Oh, yeah.
These martyrs have it made.
She’s lived in hell through a
marriage with a lout. Nothing
post mortem could phase her.
Pshaw. You know that’s not
what I mean.
Physically? She’s not too far
gone, lots of stress injuries
even to muscles and ligaments
not from exertion but from,
well, stress.
Come on. Quit being cute.
I’m serious.
I’m serious, too. The levity’s
a cover for my spirit rupturing
when I see the psychic pain.
I know. Can she be saved?
Yeah. She’s reached the bottom.
She’s ready to give up using all
her substantial resources trying
to hold it all together, to make
a life for the kids he taunts,
to build her self-respect that’s
atrophied under his onslaughts,
to grow against his attempts
to espalier her like a bonsai tree.
And reaching the bottom is good?
Oh, essential. Now she can let go
reach up, admit she can’t,
and God’s there, waiting for
the slightest hint of her invitation
to come in and fix it all.
So she’ll live.
Oh, more than live. Now she’ll
thrive, she’ll fly, soaring to
heights of talent and energy and
success she’d buried so deep and
so long she’d though never even
existed when they’re who she is.
Yes, now finally, she’ll live!