Memoirs of a Machine
I cut where I am told, my arms moving with mechanical precision, / Following imaginary lines running throughout the body.
I cut where I am told, my arms moving with mechanical precision, / Following imaginary lines running throughout the body.
Everyone / in this cold / room is dead.
If you came to me then, / I might have smeared salve / into the keloid stripes / ripped into your back
A flannel button-up and house shoes wear a man / Sitting to my left, with a right ear just trying to keep up appearances; / Just as deaf to the / echo of firework safety / Then, / As to my voice / Now.
Whenever someone hang glides, / They pick a place to land. / Somewhere soft and somewhere close, / Somewhere that they planned.
Stunted by the shadow of its flow / pouring, rumbling in a lifelong swing / through the raging heart of darkness rings / the steadfast drip: a weak and lonely bruit, / and pitting insult in the turbid skin / with shocking faults to grimly thinning walls / the fallen house still stands; the flagging strands / and edematous sands chafe the burning soles.
Burnout / They say dreamers aren’t doctors / So they kill the dream / Tests with trivial details we have barely seen, / let alone remember.
“He is beyond the help of human aid” / He quoted from the big book / He stared directly at me as he spoke / And that one line was all it took
A poem about gross anatomy from our writer-in-training Damien Zreibe.
A poem from our writer-in-training Brent Schnipke about his experience abroad.
A poetic reflection on shadowing in the medical examiner’s office.
“I have diabetes.” Shadowing at a pediatric endocrinology office, I was told this statement by a four-year-old patient. As weeks passed, I could not stop thinking about it.