My Year of Writing Dangerously

On the spur of one of my (increasingly rare) moments of inspiration, I decided that in order to maintain my artistic integrity, and because I can't keep calling myself a writer for much longer without actually WRITING something, I am going to write a poem a day for the next year. The first poem will be posted on August 10, 2010 and the last poem will be posted on August 10, 2011. (Unless, of course, I decide to keep going.) Not all of the poems will be good, and DEFINITELY not all of them will be interesting, but I will gaze around my kitchen, my living room, and Coming Home Cafe until something inspires me, then write a poem about it, as well as my random thoughts on the mundane things that no one notices, but which it is my goal to immortalize over the course of this year.



Saturday, September 4, 2010

Day 20 - Legere's Anatomy (I know... SO clever right)

Since Grey's Anatomy is awesome and Bloodletting and Miraculous Cures is awesome I decided to do this poem as an homage to both of them. Medical allegory, get it? Got it? Good! I even named it after a song, as Shondra Rhimes does with Grey's.

Fix You Up

Surgeons cut.
They cut long, they cut deep, they cut with certainty.
So sure that they are right,
they give themselves over completely.
Every time.

Patients bleed.
They bleed red blood that borders broken skin.
They trust.
They trust that they will live,
that they will be stronger,
better,
healthier.

Complete trust.
Open to another person,
letting someone into you.
To see you,
to feel you,
to fix you.

Surgeons close.
They sew their long, deep, certain cuts.
They close.
They leave.
They pull out and pack up and take off,
to the next cut.

Patients scar.
Fixed, whole, better off.
But for a scar:
a reminder
of what was lost,
of what was saved.

Scars.
They last.
And they do remind us
of the gaping hole the surgeon left.
Of the pain.
Of the hurt.
Of the trust that is broken if we aren't fixed,
if we aren't whole,
if we aren't better off.
The only reminder of the person we opened to,
the person we let inside.
The person who left.
The person who moved on to their next cut
with nothing in their wake
but a scar.

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