Weak, in January
by F.C. Shultz

On the sixth day,
the baby was labored,
all were well;
Jesus is alive.  

Then the seventh came,
grandpa went,
we stayed;
Jesus is   alive. 

The ninth arrived,
after four yellow days, 
we went home;
Jesus is     alive. 

The tenth was the second
sabbath, I missed the funeral,
my family, the day;
Jesus is       alive.  

The twelfth brought
emails in the eighties,
an old mother self-magnifying;
Jesus is         alive. 

The first hours of the thirteenth
she spent under emergency care,
our week old bottle fed;
Jesus is           alive. 

The thirteenth never ended,
blood pressuring toward stroke,
back under the nurse’s care;
Jesus is             alive. 

The fourteenth brought pressure 
to a head for father and daughter,
colon questioned, rash manifested;
Jesus is               alive. 

The fifteenth was plagued by night 
terrors of a suffocated son,
leading to a pitch-black breakdown;
Jesus is                 alive. 

Through wide-eyed nights, weeping
steam cleans, blood pressure
unchanged, my lips just mutter
Jesus is        

                                  alive.