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Poetry Collection

Updated: Mar 30, 2020

NATALIE MORENO

University of Michigan


Revisiting Old Wounds


He raised his sombrero and nodded

When I walked in, his silver crowns

Shining like the rosary adorning his

Neck. He wore a long-sleeved plaid

Tucked into his jeans. His eyes

Rested on the beaded Huichol

Earrings that dangled in my hair like

A lifeboat in Baja California. Then we

Smiled at each other like old friends.


And like my neighbors in East LA,

I noted the calluses on his hands.

I knew, it was from the countless weeds

He picked, so that his daughter’s

Life would blossom as his never did.

No clubbing on the hands,

But he was still wrestling with life.

No cyanosis, but his heart was blue.


I noticed the bags underneath his eyelids.

Like my uncles who worked the fields,

He too had not been sleeping much. His

Days are too long, full of responsibilities, with

ever more light to shed on dreams not

Fulfilled. The nights are just not long enough.


Gracias, señorita, he said, holding

Both of my hands between his own for

The care I have given him. I smile.

For how does one charge when

A person gives her a window through

Time to remedy what she couldn’t then?

 

To My Donor


The first time I held your hand, I followed

The nerves along your brachial plexus,

The fibers interwoven like the sweater you

Crocheted. The following day I reviewed

Your muscles. Sartorius. Orbicularis oris.

Soleus. Like reading a list of stars. That

Thursday, I hesitated, but I took a Norse-like

Hammer to your vertebrae. I should tell you,

Your spine runs through it with ganglia and

Rami, all of them connecting like the planets

And imaginary lines between constellations.


But today is December 18th. You would have

Celebrated your birthday where the geese

Meet at the Huron River. Instead I am holding

Your Heart with one hand, naming vessels

And chambers I trace with my fingers

While your family buys you a white dress

And flowers. The airway in your lungs looks

Like the snow-laden branches outside. I

Wonder, is that what we look like when we

Take our last breaths, leaving roots behind

But waiting for the last leaf to fall?


I want to tell you, I know you are still a person.

I’ve seen the wrinkles on your face. Each one

Follows another like footprints on a trail of

Hardships. Your eyes are closed, but I see you

Glancing through your lashes. I imagine your son

Holding you at your last breath as you held him

During his first. I think of your spouse kissing

You goodbye once cancer took the warmth from

Your lips. And when I leave the lab and pour

Sanisol over your body like a drink offering over

Your table, I am saying thank you each time.


 

Boxes

He sat on his bed with eyes downcast,

The white hairs on his chin aligned like infinite

Tally marks counting woes against his skin.

The doctors came in to deliver his sentence,

To tell him his youth was spent, the periods

He scored touchdowns gone, and the worst

Guaranteed if his leg stayed.

As the words fell out of the doctor’s mouth,

I mistook the white coat for a black cloak.

Then he left the room.

Alone in my patient’s presence, he turned to me,

The light through the window peering through the

Blinds lied across his skin like slender bars.

He asked me if he would end up like other men

In wheelchairs. He did not want to spend his life

In a box, knowing one was waiting for him in the

Near future. I held his hand and so badly wanted

To say I would build him wings.

But I am a student.

All I have are two arms and two legs with

None to spare. There are no wings between

My shoulder blades. No feathers to spare along

My skin. No magic, no miracles, nor promising

Oracles from my lips. Just a hand, with warm skin

To place over his own cold ones, and the promise

That I would see him tomorrow.


 

The Bad Doctor


I walk into my patient’s room, brain fully loaded with mnemonics.

History of Present Illness: HPI. I think there is a PQRS

In there somewhere. EKG. Another wave

Of PQRS and letters merge like alphabet soup. How much do I brave

‘Til they compare my brain to the contents of a colostomy bag? Cruel

But true. Shoot. Patient: tall Latin male. Me: short Latin female. No Stool.

His chief concern: stomach pain. Mine? Failing medical school.


Minutes pass. I spy a cross on his neck. We go from aortic valves

To his faith in God and Vicks Vapor Rub--the salve

We Hispanics equate to the Balm of Gilead.

I press his lower left and right quadrants for GI leads

In determining…why while examining his bowels and belly

Am I reminded of “Tichborne’s Elegy?”

I should focus on my patient’s microbiology.


I, am a professional. But darnit, it’s hard enough

To keep my stethoscope on and my sombrero off

When he smiles and calls me “Chingona” like my Tio Elias.

The term “medical student” being but a new alias

To me is not helping the imposter syndrome.

Distracted and grinning, I lift the otoscope, inspect the drums--

Wait. That’s a fundoscope. I’m so nervous, now I need tums.


Gracias, Chingona,” he says as I finish. “Échale ganas.”

He is so nice. I wouldn’t trust me. My mistakes remain between us--

But holy H.pylori. My French can’t be allowed within the premises

Of this hospital. But cluelessness is my arch nemesis.

So what the hell am I going to tell the attending? “Hasta la vista”

And run like a flu-ridden nostril? Well, hey. My patient had no blue sclera.

So at least I ruled out osteogenesis imperfecta.


 

The Deal


He built a tower of cards from base to apex.

Adjusting the cannula on his face, he

Looked up and wheezed. “Tell me, doc.”


I flipped the switch. The films before us lit

Up like a row of black and white suits.

Then silence. I caress his clubbing fingers

And place my hand over his own,

Because the one life dealt him is not enough.


So I explain, and the facts consolidate

Like the scars he harbors in his chest.

I draw an alveolus like the grapes

That made the Chardonnay he drank with

His Marlboros. The countless stresses

He had blown away and flushed at the

Monte Carlo return to him. He beholds the

Drawing, and then his tower.

“They really look more like this.”

He points to the ace of clubs. Then he flicks

It from the base, and the tower falls.

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