Her gentle hands

She came at night, her gentle hands
defused the ticking bomb that was his brain,
she soothed the pain and drew his livid
length inside, she sat astride to weld
his broken head with anxious gaze
and clever hands, gave praise,
encouraged him to try and see,
to open up his eyes.

He cried.

She sighed and sighed and signified
repleteness of her solo ride, she kissed
his salty tear-filled eyes and said her name.

When doctors came at dawn and found
him smiling in the bed, relaxed, alert,
and certainly not dead as half expected,
they wondered out aloud how it could be.

Soldier 102 replied Nurse Jenny Callendaur
in reverent voice. They shook their heads,
there’s no such nurse the matron said until
a staffer checked the roll. He said with wonder
in his eyes and awe-filled voice, she died in ’41
when they bombed the psychiatric ward.
© I.D. Carswell