Tears for the dead, tears for the living / who persist in this world that is so unforgiving
In my white coat, / I ask for forgiveness. / Forgive me, / to the weary homeless man
General: / Patient is in NAD, / except for being awoken at 7 a.m. by someone he has never met
Dead eschars are excised. / Skin grafts grow like flowers / Repotted for new life.
Grandpapa had a gift for storytelling. / Sitting on the two-legged stools at the end of the Hutong,
Bleary-eyed, / Surgical cap awry, / I follow in a single file line.
As I unzip the synthetic shroud, / he breathes his last, first breath: / one final exhalation from the plastic pleura / before we make acquaintance.
Medical student, why don’t you intubate? / The OR is safe, it’ll go great.
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.
Why — why did you die? / Your soul took to the sky / without a conscious goodbye
The quaternary code, the winding staircase / of you, incommensurate in its beauty.
The child’s restful sleep is lost / To the hisses of serpents and other seditious demons