We are living incarnations of a love that preceded us.
Vibrant, with ailing petals that should fall.
A knot in the throat, a conjuring of another’s quintessence,
as music brightens the void.
As we love others perhaps we can feel the face
of eternity shining down upon us.
If we could but hold on to love,
to be mindful of its primacy,
we might never grow dim again.
*This blog post was originally published at The Examining Room of Dr. Charles*
In the March 3, 2010 issue of JAMA, there is a poem by Sarah Wells called “Hymn of Skin.” While I enjoyed the whole poem, my favorite part is:
Plastic surgeon of the heavens, how I delight
in a furrowed brow, crow’s feet, age spots—
wrinkle me up a dozen times to show I lived
hard, good, funny—after all beauty, being what it is,
is only skin deep—may my soul seep through
dry scales of later hands, resting tranquil in my lap.
O omniscient dermatologist, what ingenuity,
past hurts evident in scrapes and scars—
a clumsy stumble down uneven concrete stairs,
knees and ankle raw and dripping; pockmarked cheeks
from teenage zits—all healed, in the end, but not forgotten.
How often we need reminders of where we’ve been.
*This blog post was originally published at Suture for a Living*
Classic presentation of the perfect patient
“What’s the problem? You’re the doctor,
why don’t you tell me!
I’m suffering an awful lot it must
be plain to see;
I’ve got back pain from that car wreck
back in nineteen sixty-five.
If I’d have worn my seat belt
there’s no way I’d be alive!
I’m out of my prescription and I
need help, I’m afraid.
I ain’t worried ‘bout the price, you see
I got my Medicaid. Read more »
*This blog post was originally published at edwinleap.com*