The year turns four. / April weeps: the vootery / Of a heart too weak / To hold the stifling tears until December.
Medicine is a march, but it’s not like Sherman’s to the sea. You don’t burn what you leave, and the sea is always just beyond the next hill.
A few winters ago, you called me after a ski accident and announced / “I have fractured my tibial plate.”
Draped the head and steadied the bed / For the life-saving aneurysm clipping, / I stop thinking of my former life.
Your Smile / Wrinkles, / Where my jokes weren’t funny.
Filled with fear and pain but love and hate / To raise it alone since he never agreed
We stand beneath tin roofs / with raindrops on our lips / regret behind our eyes.
So, one way or another / I keep craning my neck / Looking up.
I’ve thought about this for quite a while: / How much I owe to just a smile.
We all earn our way here / Paid in hours of studying / and minutes of fun lost.
“Eager and enthusiastic” / As I drag myself from bed. / “Positive energy” / Do you have an injury to your head?
I float in an ocean of sterile cerulean. / In this deep of drapery and gowns, / One could swim out and never see the shore.