Off the Shelf, Poetry Thursdays
Leave a comment

Stomach


The burning taste
of acid in the throat
is a warning.

The reminder that
you are a volcano
under the rockslide

of your chest.
The stomach
cannot always tell

when to stop chewing,
where the food stops
and the body begins

between self and other.
We get hurt this way,
in the churning.

To see ourselves
where we are not,
like a trick mirror.

A magician sawing
through open belly,
back-and-forth illusion

to draw away the eyes
and misplace them
from the truth.

The stomach does not know
when it is eroding,
consuming itself alive.


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.


 

Steven Duncan (5 Posts)

Contributing Writer

UT Southwestern Medical School


Steven is a writer and medical student at UT Southwestern Medical School in Dallas, Texas. In 2018, he graduated from Brigham Young University with a dual degree in microbiology and Russian. Steven is earning an MD with distinction in global health. In the future, he would like to pursue a career in international medicine and primary care.