The Hospital of Frozen Fire
In the ward of iron beds and sterile hush,
a man lies twisted—
limbs like winter branches,
breath a shallow frost. I weep, one day’s salt for forty years. Three women sit,
backs to me,
a silent trinity cloaked in dusk—
maiden’s spark, mother’s hearth, crone’s dark torch—
all turned away,
their fire lent to a ghost. A gentle warden, mother-eyed,
watches without word. I mend the vents—
hot rage, cold regret—
until the air finds balance. Then:
the cripple rises,
bones unfold like wings,
he runs—
an athlete born of embered grief. Eve’s waters,
Helen’s flame,
Mary’s glow,
Sophia’s coal—
all rush home. The hospital exhales.
The past is ash.
The fire is mine.