I recall my father sitting on a small stool in the kitchen / dialing friends and family, one by one, rippling outward
my patient does not have insurance / he asks me to address his concerns
Illness lies hidden in our ways / Influenced by the unconscious gaze.
“One” / It read. / Unassuming in black and white
Scared and frightened, we came in as interns / We had the knowledge, but we needed direction
I seize. / With emotion, not motor.
To help a soul / To heal a wound / To hold a hand / To walk again
Here I am, come and get me! A playful provocation we have all used with much more than literal meaning as a mantra. But going through the rigors, chills and metaphorical bacteremia of medical education, I lost some of the pieces that made me confident to be myself.
Collide, Rip, Shred / Microthrombi ahead / Schistocytes I discover
Like most times on call, the day had been busy. / I’d been running in circles, my head in a tizzy.
I used to joke that after having my twin girls, my breasts no longer belonged to me. / Forget about possession, let’s talk about existence.
I waited for nine months to meet you. / I know that one night I loved a woman and then you, a blackberry of cells, found your place in her fertile garden and you grew there