I float in an ocean of sterile cerulean.
In this deep of drapery and gowns,
One could swim out and never see the shore.
The island of the patient’s flesh —
Anchoring us to the reality
Of why we paddled out.
The patient’s carapace has been pierced
To the adipose beneath,
Glistening and ripe
Like some supremed citrus.
Suction of crimson,
Scent and puff of cautery.
The surgeon has found her ‘white whale’
In a propagation of cells
Changed and looking out
For their own survival now.
A crab that’s burrowed into a dune of tissue.
Instruments sail across the blue–
Flesh, like waves of the red sea,
Begin to make amends,
With mortal intervention.
In hours that feel like minutes,
The tide has gone out.
Poetry Thursdays is an initiative that highlights poems by medical students and physicians. If you are interested in contributing or would like to learn more, please contact our editors.