Pama Lee Bennett

POETRY

Cruciate*

I.
Two powerful crossbars, joined, resilient—
this is required to hold things together,
bands of tough tissue for bending,
rotating, lifting of weight—
or of wood and spikes,
for the putting to death,
for the setting free,

broken only by a violent blow,
but what has happened cannot be forgotten.

II.
An ice-encrusted steep hill and
a crew of toboggans, Leanne’s laughter,
and chatting with Brian,
whom I’d met at a party,

then freezing fingers,
and flying down, flying,
time after time—and a tumble off,
rolling hard on my neck—
“This is risky,” I thought.

A voice from somewhere,
smoothly spoken,
“Just one more time.”
I’d studied for the test, after all,
it was time to have fun.

III.
And a hurtling to earth, bursting
sun-sky-trees and white-white,
slamming into snow-packed ground,
a sensation of my leg in my throat,
being ripped asunder, the world at odd angles,

the merciful numbing cold,

and a blur of ski rescue, yellow parkas,
ambulance taking slow careful turns,
a cold gurney, and the interminable waiting
for doctors on their Sunday off—
my knee bulging crazily upward to the right—
then Dr. Baird’s voice: “The tibia’s on the femur.”
I groaned, thinking bones and biology,
and at last a hypodermic and dreams,
waking in a bed with bars,
my cast, hip to heel,
immobile,

brought to my knees, kneeless,
and a week later, the blood clot,
heparin and lying still for days—
possibilities: death or life—

and afterwards, pain, pain
grinding and stabbing,
a cross to bear, a turning point,
a constant reminder as
I learned how to walk again,
slowly, sometimes faltering,
forever altered,
limping in a new direction,

(as Jacob, thinking he knew best,
wrestled with the angel,
who with a mere touch to his hip
left him lame.
He, too, got the point. Awestruck,
he sought and received blessing,
was called by a new name,
and he entered the land.)

Two powerful crossbars, joined, resilient:
agent of wounding and
instrument of grace.
Without it, nothing can be as intended;
one may walk, but can’t run,
one may pray, but won’t kneel.

* Cruciate: in Classical Latin, fr. “cruciare,” meaning “to torture;” fr. the Latin for “crux;” cross-shaped; used to refer to posterior and anterior joined ligaments of the knee.

Mercy

“Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see”
–Hebrews 11:1

It was already my custom to drive through these woods,
seeking peace and quiet, loving auburn and gold,
a crisp carpet of sacred space.
Often I saw a doe or two, perhaps with a fawn.
Wanting a sign, I confess, although by this time
greater faith is expected of me—
my answers no longer come this way—
I held a conversation,
a petition, a small request:
“If I see a stag by himself, when I am alone,
I will trust all is well, by faith,”
(yes, remember! by faith!)

I nearly forgot my prayer, as the weeks wore on,
almost daily journeying to this place of respite
to shed sorrow and the noisy clang of the world.
One day I took a lesser path, curving left and down,
breathing in the autumn chill, creeping along as usual,
gazing left, then off to the right,

and I caught my breath—
he stood poised and silent in the clearing—
like a statue, I thought at first,
strong, in his prime,
his tawny hide smooth as suede,
dark eyes watching mine.

“You are all right,” I cried, and
he bowed his ten-point crown to the ground,
raised it slowly,
looked long at me, then turned away
and cantered into the forest.
“Oh, don’t go!” I cried,
an echo of my words on an earlier terrible day,
but this time, a smile, widening,
joy spilling over, streaming down.

Pama Lee Bennett is a speech-language pathologist in Sioux City, IA. She has taught English at summer language camps in Poland and at a school there in 2019. She plays in a Renaissance recorder ensemble. Her poems and flash non-fiction have appeared in Dash, Tipton Poetry Journal, Evening Street Review, The Bluebird Word, and Bogg (now defunct.)

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