There is a straight line from / ordering an ultrasound to obtaining / clear cylinders of red blood cells.
Every town — / We’ll say it could be any town, / until it has affected every town
It’s amazing how in three years / How much you grow / As a person
Where do I begin? / Skimming her list of diagnoses, my eyes are drawn to her pancreatic cancer. / Confused, I glanced back at her age / I was not mistaken, she just turned 49.
American pride — from our pride we should hide, / for it’s caused us to hate, despise, and decry
Deadlines rush on, relentlessly. / Another email signed, / “Best regards.”
Studying blood clots / While I sit for hours on end / Affixing my own.
You’ve taken everything / Nothing is left
Screams. Tears. Despair. / A sense of sadness in the atmosphere.
The hospital room is / fair, square, sterile — / by its vapid / medical posters / and lusterless hospital tools.
Ruchica Chandnani, Class of 2024 at the Arkansas College of Osteopathic Medicine, contributes this poem as an in-Training writer and current managing editor of the publication since 2021.
Tears for the dead, tears for the living / who persist in this world that is so unforgiving