Cold Burn

I know the cold burn of disallowed anger.

Like the still peace before anoxic unconsciousness,

it allows me to carry on

the perfunctory essentials of my work.

I see humanity striding:

Granite neurosurgeon bearing

a God-made body gently in his arms

Tears wash his cheek:

Blood flowing. Brain showing. Bludgeoned

by a concentration camp-crazed creature

called husband.

 I see? No, I look. I am distanced

by a me: a built-in viewing glass

looking at war two continents away.

My ministrations done, I sit. Then,

I feel.

I feel the cold of a Himalayan avalanche envelop me.

I feel the clammy river flowing from my pits.

My clothes are wet. My eyes won’t see.

I shiver. My gut is snared on meat hooks.

I feel sick.

I feel the cold burn.