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.
What is the recipe that makes an ideal medical student? Are each of us the summation of perfectly measured ingredients? Are we all weighed to the gram, set to proof until we rise just enough and gently set to bake?
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
My relaxed reveal / faked a fool / while tanking time / with failing fuel.
If I don’t text back / Please don’t think it’s you / It’s the abundance of info / That I must go through
Comparison is the enemy / The future seems bleak / Look left, look right