A Small Wound

A small wound weeps high on my inner thigh.

Like a lidless eye, it seeps and oozes,

leaking from the juncture of leg and hip.

The clear, greasy fluid glues my pant leg

to my flesh and stains my white underwear.

I don’t know why it is there or what it means.

Like Jacob, I have wrestled angels through the night.

Perhaps one has touched my thigh with a wing,

and like the still, silent, statues of saints

gazing up into the vaults of stone churches

with tears tracing trails down their plaster faces,

my wound is a miraculous event

leaking an oil for the anointing of kings.

We all battle with angels and demons,

and while demons can be defeated and

vanquished, it is well-known that

it is the angels we fight the hardest

who leave the lasting wounds.