Marci Klayder Gibbens

In the garden

My unsteady hand grips the trowel

in the evening, fresh and crisp,

with the faint smell of smoke

from a neighbor’s cigarette

or the fire pit down the road.

I breathe in the scent

with the upturned earth

as I dig your winter home.

The twilight bathes my hand

patting the cool soil smooth

and sealing you off from the waiting world.

As the first snow falls,

I step onto the frigid lawn

and traverse to your manger,

but the powder conceals.

Still, I believe.

My daughters’ shrieks of joy turn to song

and their snow angels

announce your birth—

roots burrow deep

and a shoot emerges underground:

this world will never be the same.

The rising temperature and rains

beckon me to my window

where I witness

a pale green stem

supporting a royal crown:

the commencement of your ministry.

I rush outside, flattening

the grasses that spread themselves at your feet

as you restore faith and love

to humanity—

the world watches in awe.

A solitary tulip:

the hope of the world resting in your petals,

but even you cannot escape suffering

of the vicious winds and fiery storms.

Then, the heat scorches

and your once triumphant blossoms

shrivel and droop.

I try to shield you,

but you whisper,

“It is part of the plan.”

And the world rejects you.

I look down at my hands

that long to do more

than wipe the tears from my eyes

and endure the pains of suffering

when my eye catches glimpse

of your cross in the ground

where I consider the power

of your resurrection

and resolve to share in your suffering.

Then, blowing in the wind I hear—

“You are part of My plan.”

A Finite infinity

What troubles me

is this problem of pain,

how doctors and therapists strive to save

the victims of its claws, those invisibly marked

for suffering from birth—innocence doesn’t last forever.

Their mothers stroke their heads and whisper love’s enduring

medicine, unaware that their vulnerable infants will endure

misfortune and setback in their care. Rankled, my

fervent prayers cry out, “Forever?”

The answer? Rise above Pain.

But Miseria—her mark

no savior.

Save

your flowers. Endure

your afflictions alone. Mark

the pills you swallow and give me

your discarded bottles and soiled sheets. Painfully

wake up each morning and stretch your inflamed muscles forever.

I wonder if this is the way of it. The whole of life, a trial persisting forever,

perhaps a race where many are trampled, no hero to save

them until it is too late: demonic pain,

an unwieldy burden to endure.

I stare now at my

own marks.

and marvel at my body, once marked

as healthy. I could run and write forever

without worry washing over me,

no task too large, no need to save

energy just for the strength to endure

another day of pain.

Pain’s

mark

endures

forever.

Save

me.

I searched everywhere for an answer, a remedy to cure me.

None came. But someone knows Pain: the only Savior

who bears the marks on his head, hands, feet. He endures forever.

Marci Klayder Gibbens is an English teacher who writes poetry about chronic pain, motherhood, and faith. Her poems have appeared in American Diversity Report and Ariel Chart International Literary Journal. Writing poetry is a cathartic outlet for her, and she hopes to give voice to other sufferers of chronic pain.