Manuscript Writing GET WELL, my son bends over his crayon like a monk, scribing his way of praying. This sacred text must carry no erasure, if his hope is to be living truth. These red-blue letters go to bear witness in a far hospital that is a tent, where they won’t blow out, not birthday candle words, dark in the breath of wishing. His W stands guard; it stretches arms warding in two directions, while his G, with S and O in SOON, must slide back from the top of rocks someone might slip from, smashed for keeps. E presses straight ahead, right to the point. Ls of WELL stand stiff in parallel, a fence with footers, letting nobody under or between. For a final sign he does his name. Amen. His father in the desert will unfold it, like a pass to a forgotten life, will feel love dance in pictures round the capitals, keeping him whole, illuminated, bound.
Kristin Camitta Zimet
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