Relief
Tears for the dead, tears for the living / who persist in this world that is so unforgiving
Poetry Thursdays
Poetry Thursdays is our initiative to highlight poetry and prose by medical students, with a new post every Thursday. If you are interested in contributing or would like to learn more, please contact our editors.
Contributing Writer
Texas Tech University Health Sciences Center Paul L. Foster School of Medicine
Melissa Huddleston is a third-year medical student at Texas Tech University Health Sciences Center Paul L. Foster School of Medicine in El Paso, Texas class of 2023. In 2016, she graduated from Baylor University with a Bachelor of Science in informatics and a secondary major in classics. In 2018, she graduated from Baylor University with a Master of Public Health in community health education. She enjoys hiking, reading, and playing board games. After graduating from medical school, Melissa would like to pursue a career in pediatrics.
Forgive Me
In my white coat, / I ask for forgiveness.
The First Physical
General: / Patient is in NAD, / except for being awoken at 7 a.m. by someone he has never met
As a Phoenix
Dead eschars are excised. / Skin grafts grow like flowers / Repotted for new life.
Grandpapa’s Gift
Grandpapa had a gift for storytelling. / Sitting on the two-legged stools at the end of the Hutong,
Gynecologic Oncology Surgeons: Normal-Sized Giants
Bleary-eyed, / Surgical cap awry, / I follow in a single file line.
His Last, First Breath
As I unzip the synthetic shroud, / he breathes his last, first breath: / one final exhalation from the plastic pleura / before we make acquaintance.
Intubate
Medical student, why don’t you intubate? / The OR is safe, it’ll go great.
Shortcomings of a Sanctuary
In the hospital lobby, three police officers / surrounded a woman in an oversized, white T-shirt, / sitting in a corner chair that nearly swallowed her whole, / enveloping her in its dull, floral pattern.
Death Is No Crime
Why — why did you die? / Your soul took to the sky / without a conscious goodbye
My Reflection (and Infinitely Beyond)
The quaternary code, the winding staircase / of you, incommensurate in its beauty.
Escape
The child’s restful sleep is lost / To the hisses of serpents and other seditious demons
Contributing Writer
Stanford University School of Medicine
Brian Smith is a first-year medical student at the Stanford University School of Medicine in Stanford, California, a member of the starting class of 2021. In 2019 he graduated from Stanford with a Bachelor of Science in biology and a minor in English, and in 2020 he graduated from Stanford with a Master of Science in biology. He enjoys writing poetry and narrative medicine, as well as running and reading in his free time. In the future, Brian would like to pursue a career in anesthesiology or oncology.