Here's finally the poem you have all been waiting for, and which I've tried to hunt down for maybe 5 years!
Margaret Atwood:
The Healer
I do not wish to spend the rest of my time
curing nosebleeds over the phone. Nobody here
needs anyone raised from the dead, it's too
confusing, with the notices
already sent and so forth. Asthma and bruises, warts
dissolved in moonlight, a touch and it's done.
Anything worse and they'll call the doctor.
Suffering is boring,
though noticing this does not make it end.
There are so many other things I could be doing
with my hands: digging up the garden,
digging up the garden again.
Sometimes I think my life is over and there will be
repetition but no more story.
Only these compassions, which are also minor.
I should be elsewhere, away from these
neat farms, living among the people in dust-floored
shacks who could still believe me.
But I am old and lazy now. I know that
being sick and being well are states
of the soul, though I am losing
ground, call it altitude, call it faith.
The power is in me, but what for?
What am I to do with my hands in this tidy place
filled with those who do not want
to be truly healed?
Such arrogance, to have expected miracles.
What was it anyway I thought flowed through me?
Perhaps it was only a slight talent, this tinkering
with the small breaks and fissures in other bodies,
like a knack for crewel-work.
Sundays I putter in the yard, arranging stones,
raking grass, and the church-goers pass me,
radiating their special hatreds.
In the evenings I sit on the back porch
in a stuffed chair covered with blue cloth
printed with flowers, and look out
across the ragged fields at the real
flowers, goldenrod and purple asters,
the light spilling out of them
unasked for and unused.