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
His hand reached forward, tentative at first, as he thought, this is my future
Daughter, please listen, don’t spread me in the ocean, place me in the ground or in a wall
I have more to give: Of death and of knowledge upon them, I shall impress
The medical students peeled away skin and muscle to expose what lay beneath
Three hours passed and my body, once whole, now the work of a butcher
My children would scramble into my arms and hang from my neck
When I’m old, frail and have a crooked back you’ll be to blame, I said
One finger running the ribbed trail down my back and another on the textbook
The medical student turned to the others and said, severe lordosis, I suspect
When the doctor entered the room, my family asked, please silence these alarms
I was no longer the one they remembered, yet they gathered close around my bed
She has no muscle mass, one student lamented, I just don’t know where to look
Eager to explore, another said that is no matter we must continue to dissect
Her life gave us over 80 years worth of happiness and love to emulate
The words spoken as my family grieved and away they allowed me to drift
The medical student told his family, if I am to go early, my desire is to donate
I now understand that life is circular, I have received and in turn I wish to gift
Poetry Thursdays is a weekly newsletter that highlights poems by medical students and physicians. This initiative is led by Slavena Salve Nissan at Icahn School of Medicine at Mount Sinai. If you are interested in contributing, please contact Slavena.