Is this man or is this flesh / That implores my expertise? / Is it meat or is it human / When we meet, which do I see?
What happened to you? / I don’t remember / Did it hurt? / Yes boy, oh yes
The scent of illness, stifling and spoiled / Masked by antiseptics.
What an endeavor it is: / To reach out and touch humanity.
Blood flakes / fall onto the /blue, sterile field from / crimson-smeared green / light grips.
She suffers from bouts of amenorrhea. / She masticates as often as the day is black.
The year turns four. / April weeps: the vootery / Of a heart too weak / To hold the stifling tears until December.
His breaths are heavy when we walk in. / Abdomen distended: / a large, perfect half-sphere…
There is no sound / like that of a heart breaking.
Hearts that beat, / Turn into hearts that don’t.
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.”