Life is a collection of stories / Housed within us all / Pages of precious memories / Plastered upon our walls
Climbing the steps one foot at a time \ He fell short of just one. \ But it is a part of the paradigm \ So I convince him that his journey is far from done.
She said, / “Doctor: / I know you’ll think I’m crazy, but / I really want to get pregnant.”
It was pink / like the flowers he buys his wife. / It was not uniform.
The motor commands that choreograph speech are a privilege to possess, though I frequently find myself thinking / about silence, / and the reasons for which I may choose to leave it unbroken.
Jagged shards of lightning playfully dance across the horizon, / their shrieks of war struggling to keep up … / I hesitantly about-face and land my gaze upon his ethereal face.
On the first day of lecture, my dear, sweet professor / Had fallen ill with a case of the flu.
There is pain on her face. / I’m walking on the busy sidewalk, / I don’t know her.
Open. / Open abdomens. / Idealized organs from Netter’s in the flesh.
Soon, / There / Will be / A true cure.
I have stood on both sides of the line– / The line between mother and medic; / The line between parent and practitioner.
time, / its lifespan ceases to exist / as the gold warmth of your hazel eyes surround me