Medicine is a march, but it’s not like Sherman’s to the sea. You don’t burn what you leave, and the sea is always just beyond the next hill.
A few winters ago, you called me after a ski accident and announced / “I have fractured my tibial plate.” / I didn’t know what that meant, what to make of it, / how to comfort you but to hug you, / my entire body a cast for yours –
unwieldy, over prescriptive, largely useless.
Draped the head and steadied the bed / For the life-saving aneurysm clipping, / I stop thinking of my former life.
Your Smile Wrinkles, Where my jokes weren’t funny. Your voice Cracks, When you tell me you love me. Your palms Sweat, While you roll the dice. “Maybe orange isn’t your color?” “Well isn’t that nice.” Your sides Ache, When I look like a fool. My cheeks Blushing, “I fell in the pool.” Your temper Boils, This is a mistake. My hand Trembles, Perhaps, this can wait. Breaths settle, Hand in hand, …
Filled with fear and pain but love and hate / To raise it alone since he never agreed
We stand beneath tin roofs / with raindrops on our lips / regret behind our eyes.
So, one way or another / I keep craning my neck / Looking up.
I’ve thought about this for quite a while: / How much I owe to just a smile.
We all earn our way here / Paid in hours of studying / and minutes of fun lost.
“Eager and enthusiastic” / As I drag myself from bed. / “Positive energy” / Do you have an injury to your head?
I float in an ocean of sterile cerulean. / In this deep of drapery and gowns, / One could swim out and never see the shore.
I am waiting for my coffee when / a middle-aged Turkish man / asks if I am a medical student