Morning of recovery

Folds the beauty a compress warm

Pressed against the face 

a cut; thin but swollen 

Painful but, 

Sweet is the hand that caresses me;

white light beyond the golden hair

above presses the pus from the 

Wound out.

No memory, only acceptance now of

the embrace 

presses down upon me

Water skates across the cheek a 

Sensation invigorating a soul, all from the 

Heat.

Escaping inside, leaving the cold water

Sleeping at my neck—seeping onto

The bed behind me

That smile again,

Blue into the window an orange smile

Lips a color off-red 

Now my opening—a window into my head

I want her hand to go down 

Again, 

For the warmth of the rag

Dilutes the tears racing the hot water

Down my cheek

No—no more

need for treatment 

please remove the 

rag it's cold and damp and I only really need 

A hug, or a hand to 

hold.  

Submitted as part of the 2025 Humanities and Healing Event.

By Braeden Sagehorn