Ambroise Paré

The Lord be Praised for Ambroise Paré


and more for his helping gentleman hand
weighing, cupping, a footed bowl of rosewater,
the surface spilling over
its lip, sloshing a rag of putrid turpentine,
hearing the sweet sizzle of sour.

Daubing his rag on the lost,
firm fingers became the father to those without,
rolling royal sleeves to the elbow and
painstakingly prying out plans for
the clenching, spring-loaded "Le Petit Lorrain".

Where are you now, enemy of the arabesquing arquebuse?
When will we hear again "Je le pansai, Dieu le guérit"?
"Guérir quelquefois, soulager souvent, consoler toujours", right?

Incised, the arteries bow-tied back,
twitching then imp like a floundering flicker--all white subclavian.
I hardly seem to notice what is already gone:
That strange and grevious fact,
the phantom limb skimming--dancing--off the surface
of that ancient river whose name only
the blind know and only
amputees can pronounce.