Thorn

You came to me raw with somebody else’s bruise,

a dark bloom pressed into the muscle of your heart,

the ache fresh, still spitting its venom.

You brought it here like an animal limping,

still snarling from the trap.

I was the wild pasture you limped into,

the rough shelter, the scent of earth and old rain.

I felt your bones trembling under my hand,

felt the tender scar tissue of your heart

pulling tight around me, the way a thorn

buries itself deeper, hidden in flesh.

In the night, I held you while you buckled,

the shadow of their hurt riding the shape of your body,

and I took it in, that shadow, like rain takes fire,

and I knew you’d go, healed by what I gave

and left to follow some open horizon.

You drank from my heart, stepped across me,

out into the bright wilderness,

your footprints filling with the dark earth of my grief.

Now I keep to the fields, watch the wind move the tall grass,

knowing the thorn you left is rooted somewhere deep,

a small, bitter gift.

Sharp as memory, as healing.