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
Was it a fall? Did I miss the last step? These things I cannot recall / Hidden from sight, the blood crept from one lone vessel and began to compress / Nice to meet you, one medical student said, as he unzipped my sheath
after three years go by / you appear on two slides / in a lecture / on motor neuron disease
Little girl / in the pink hospital gown / sits in a windowless room.