Twenty-Four
Twenty-four hours a day. / Spent all in one place. / The beds, the lights, the rooms all the same. / The hospital is today’s domain.
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
University of Wisconsin School of Medicine and Public Health
Anthony is a fourth year medical student at the University of Wisconsin School of Medicine and Public Health in Madison, Wisconsin class of 2024. In 2019, he graduated from University of California San Diego with a Bachelor of Science in Physiology and Neuroscience. He enjoys sports, television, and movies in his free time. After graduating medical school, Anthony would like to pursue a career in Diagnostic Radiology.
One Moment in Psychiatry
The boy coming to the office was eight. / Came in with tremendous hate. / An exceptionally troubled household.
On Rounds
Because I could not stop for death, / He kindly asked I pause. / My arms were full of sterile wraps, / Scissors, tape, and gauze.
MD-to-be
With imposter syndrome raging,/ I sit quietly at my desk,/ reflect on goals for my future/ and what it means to do my best.
Worried Well
One step and then another; / the end is near! The end is nearly here! / And yet, it is not. Not yet near. / So, I carry on, though I am weary, / though my telomeres shorten or because my telomeres shorten,
Critical Senses
Do you hear what I hear? / The humming of machines, / which can’t breathe, / but enable artificial ventilation for living beings.
To Grieve Appropriately
What does it mean to “grieve appropriately?” / To silently cry / as to not break the fragility in the air.
Time Left: 89 Minutes, 38 Seconds
My Grandmother never once told me how / she feels about dying.
Just a Medical Student
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just a med student. The rest of the team will be here shortly, they’ll explain everything to you.” We wait in silence.
Air Hunger
His diseased lungs / stiff like dry clay / function like gills out of the water.
champagne tap
she is curled on her side like a child / eyes closed, back exposed.
Dying Is Not
Dying is not / as romantic as I once thought. / I think you always knew this.
Contributing Writer
Loyola’s Stritch School of Medicine
Anneka Johnston grew up in West Michigan and attended Kenyon College, majoring in English with a special certification in creative writing, and minoring in chemistry. Continuing her lifelong commitment to avoid sunny weather, Anneka moved to Chicago following graduation, and worked in a Suboxone clinic at the height of Chicago’s opioid epidemic. She began searching for the common ground between medicine and the humanities, and became passionate about giving voice to patient experiences through narrative art. She received second place in the 2022 DeBakey Poetry Contest and third place in the 2022 William Carlos William Poetry Competition. She is currently a fourth-year student at Loyola’s Stritch School of Medicine and plans to pursue a career in psychiatry.