Michael J. Kolb

POST-OP

I thought the worst was past. The pain, the fear—
a lifetime held beneath a surgeon’s hands,
the cut, the stitching, and the long descent
into a world of tubes and beeping light.

But no one said that healing splits you in two.
My body moved ahead—a train in flight—
cells knitting, hunger stirring, skin pulled tight,
the wound sealed shut like labor cleanly done.

But still my mind stood waiting by the tracks,
unsure which train had gone, or what was missed.
They said I’d lived—and that, they said, should count.
But no one told how far the soul must run

to catch a train
that never slowed, or turned.

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