My friend Kevin has written a novel.
Reading it, I slit open my fat gut,
peel out intestine, refuse to grovel
at truth of who he is, who I am; put
scalpel to peritoneum, descend
past serosa and muscle to lumen
revealing how I survive: first pretend
care for others while I fear rejection,
then, exhausted, surrender to spirit
and honest actions. They lead to healing
when I suture my past—once desperate
lies—through prayer and amends: change revealing
what I’ve always wanted but didn’t know.
I finish a chapter. Renew my vow.
Roger Armbrust
March 20, 2013
