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
INOVA Children's Hospital
Dr. Kenneth Lopez is a 1st-year Pediatric Resident at INOVA Children's Hospital in Fairfax who is experienced in multiple fields, including medicine, chemistry, biology, public health, sociology and mathematics. He has trained in multiple industry-standard lab techniques in immunology and microbiology, as well as clinical and epidemiological translational research within multiple disciplines. His diverse experiences, leadership skills and consistent compassionate and curious approach towards tasks, allow him to contribute dynamic ideas to organizations and produce high-quality work within multiple stages of project development and implementation.
I quickly realized, they allow the inner recesses of my soul to connect with my imagination, together spewing forth a wonderful concoction of syllables, metaphors and outright madness on dozens of sticky notes
he sits on the edge of the bed, forlorn – / eyes squeezed shut, back hunched over. / the veins snaking up his arms seem / translucent as he clenches the bed rail / in a death grip.
The fault, however, doesn’t lie on me alone. / I’m but a product of the American diet and the capitalistic moan.
Because I could not stop for death, / He kindly asked I pause. / My arms were full of sterile wraps, / Scissors, tape, and gauze.
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,
Do you hear what I hear? / The humming of machines, / which can’t breathe, / but enable artificial ventilation for living beings.
What does it mean to “grieve appropriately?” / To silently cry / as to not break the fragility in the air.
My Grandmother never once told me how / she feels about dying.
“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.
His diseased lungs / stiff like dry clay / function like gills out of the water.
she is curled on her side like a child / eyes closed, back exposed.
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.
