It’s a brief coming-going ghostly meeting.
The tiny form bereft of life so fleeting.
Eyes, like thin rings of stone, two
dry pomegranates, parched black dew.
So still, with a soul fixed colder,
untimely severed ne’er fading older.
Grieved, naïve, yet seeming wise,
the ash-sad dusty doll vacant lies
with mimic-mien, and quickened guise.
A scalpel-split red reading frame
seeps voices quickly smothered, slain.
Probing for a tale at doubt’s behest,
with hope-dread, for foul or fair witness.
But either grim reply fails those who mourn
Lifting lightly the anguish-burden borne.
Contributing Writer Emeritus
University of Louisville School of Medicine
Erin is a Class of 2016 medical student. She has a B.A. in English. She took a year off before medical school to work as a Emergency Medicine scribe, and to learn how to make cupcakes from scratch. She enjoys discovering the story-telling inherent in every patient encounter.