Inner Healing

Splintered bones set hard, out of place.
I limp among those I cherish, gripping
onto furniture, before I sit, defeated.
From the crucifix, your steadfast eyes

say, What’s mine is yours. To offer
this pitted stone—my heart—is pain;
but you do not take a hammer.
Quiet light penetrates, halos me, burns

the muscle-memory that mires my feet.
How cheap the word miracle—one step,
and now immersed in grace, I stride, serene,
across the river’s bridge. The agony

was always yours. The pasture greens.
Your breath is holy. I fill my lungs.

--
Emma-Jane Peterson writes for magazines in the US and the UK, where she lives. Her poems are published in BoomerLitMag, The Clayjar Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Metphrastics, Penstricken, Black Nore Review, Prosectrics and Pure in Heart, among others. She is the co-author of a book of children’s Bible stories (Parragon).