2 - Poetry

I dreamt I had a garden

in the backyard of a home

that doesn’t actually exist.

It wasn’t a large garden, 

and it wasn’t a large home, 

but I was content and I was proud.

The yard was mostly well kept,

but not the garden—

It was overgrown,

and I couldn’t walk the plotted path.

The weeds had taken it over.

I could see that the produce was plenty,

though I couldn’t recall

what was planted.

I could see something

that looked like cabbage.

I wanted badly to tend the garden,

to do something healthy

that I would enjoy, 

though I knew that first 

the weeds must be cleared.

But the day had grown too dark,

and I needed equipment

that I didn’t yet have,

so I would need to be patient.

And I was not only at peace—

I was free.

---

Rachel Armes is a program coordinator in the Institute for Digital Health and Innovation at UAMS.

It is a long story. This is a short version:
I was about to die.
I was about to make room for new people.
My job was going to be the dream job
of someone who has been waiting for a break.
But I was stubborn; I was not sure I wanted to expire
and the doctors knew too much about death’s tricks,
so, I lived for a while longer, because, also, someone died
her heart was still beating.
So, in a barbarous display of art and cunning
the surgeons carved the dead woman’s chest
and cut her heart out for me.

The empty cavity of my chest waited like a yearning womb
like a bride at midnight, while the doctors held
in their obtuse machinery of death, the flicker of my life,
and the other person’s heart entered me, it filled my chest
and eagerly resumed its mandates of drums and cymbals
blowing, pumping, hissing, blindly loyal to the blood.
And in an instant the other person and I fused, bride and groom,
my life and her life, half in half, betrothed
surrendered to the mystery of electricity and flesh.

---

Carlos C. Gomez

It’s times like these, 
with the certainty of our assumptions, no longer certain,
that bring a richer appreciation for the touchstones and the lifelines, 
for the heartfelt friends and the fond rituals that carry us through each day,
for the ones who remind us our roots hold braided branches
strong enough to bear roses, 
and of all the reasons, like the simple scent of a rose,
that make a precious life worth living.

---

Carol Thrush, Ed.D., is a professor in the Department of Surgery.