Wounds

There are some wounds that pierce beneath the skin
But leave no surface mark to show their passing.
I do not mean the catologue of sin,
Whose hurt is mortal and begins amassing
Before the child is born; nor do I mean
The little inconveniences that scrape
Against souls's grain and muddle what was clean,
From which no living men ever escape,
But rather wounds like fishhooks in the heart
That draw the soul away from holding flesh.
The call to love, to take another's part
And join it with your own so that you mesh
And flow together in a union: these
Wounds do not leave scars. Instead they please.