Finally, it’s been three months since
He and I were strangers with bad blood,
breathless in bed,
discussing the acts of giving and
receiving as indulgences,
mulling over our motivations and
the contraindications for
charity.
We bartered our lives’ proverbs.
He called me “Boomerang” —
like a red cell in crisis —
for tending to bend myself,
for twisting before giving myself
away.
Like a red cell in crisis,
obtuse and pledging overextension
as a form of deliverance,
a promise for redemption.
He says he thinks that’s why I chose
medicine.
I’ve never known magnanimity to be so
necessarily self-limiting.
But in admiration of the red pint I’ve filled,
I wonder which one of us
has never feigned
generosity.
It’s purely communion, like
any other: a provision of flesh
for crackers and juice.
Our tithes atone —
He and I, the beneficiaries and
patron saints of a blood
ban.
But thankfully, it’s been three months since
Image credit: “Communion” (CC BY-NC 2.0) by ana branca
Poetry Thursdays is an initiative that highlights poems by medical students. If you are interested in contributing or would like to learn more, please contact our editors.
Editor-in-Chief and Former Writers-in-Training Intern
Geisinger College of Health Sciences
Eshiemomoh Osilama is a medical student at Geisinger College of Health Sciences in Scranton, PA, Class of 2024. He graduated from Columbia University in 2016 with a Bachelor of Arts in biology. He enjoys reading and writing poetry, baking, theater, singing, museums, traveling, beaches and oceans, photography, and being an extraordinary guncle. Momoh is pursuing a career in psychiatry.
