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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