My daughter is a doctor. / If your parents were not eaten away by / failed ambitions and childhood dreams, / you would not be a doctor today.
I approach the translucent window, / a milky opacity locking tight its hinges. / Vainly I press forward, reaching / for the soft sill on which to rest my hand.
We wield the privilege of the scalpel, / Slice skin, / Cauterize the cutaneous, / Disrobe the depths of disease.
It’s 1 a.m., everyone’s running on three cups of coffee / When a man stumbles through the entrance / And I could hear whispers of / It’s him, the homeless man, back in the ER again
The electrodes are more valuable than your mind. / Rounded percentages and minced words cannot disguise / the fact. Your mind is not your own.
The first thing she noticed, / Was her heart fluttering off and on, / The doctor saw her pale, / And iron pills were called upon.
new introduction / my name is… / and i’m a med student
Never grow old she says, / As the IV beeps and her SCDs hum. / Enjoy your youth she says, / As her body creaks and her fingers drum.
you almost died today. / you almost brought yourself back to life / knowing another heart, too, / makes warmth between your breasts.
his eyes beyond his glasses / dart from me / rest on the corners
This poem is about the real-life suffering of the peoples of Africa.
A sketch from fourth-year medical student Leor Arbel of the University of Central Florida.