(Dedicated to the late Dr. Lorna Breen)
How does it feel to blaze
unmapped trails in bare feet,
just a stethoscope
as compass?
How do you bear the weight of being
the final say, life or death in the balance–
praying you get it right.
Hands you cannot hold
grasp at life.
Fierce coughs,
fevered delirium.
No way to turn off
the volume.
Placing breathing tubes in the morning,
toe tags at night.
Some nightmares don’t dispel
at dawn.
What thought screamed before
scalpel sliced skin with precision
gleaned from years
of cutting
out a body’s ills?
What final thought before crimson
flowed
across
white
sheets?
Who was there to hold and heal
the healer?
Who placed the toe tag
on the doctor’s unshod feet?