Is There a Certainty of It?

If so I'll be the mother of the waiting room

where every no will rejoin its yes,

every breast hold the child it once fed.

I'll be the tyrant of bandages, keeper of salves,

every knife shall remember the wound,

and the tattoo relinquish its prisoner's skin.

I'll be paste and tape.

I'll be the oak's merciful shade.

I'll be the gate to its comings

and goings, the quick hush of it.