2 - Poetry

On a lazy Sunday, 
I sit in the sun,
reading a book by the swing. 
Some shadows watch over
the unturned page, 
and me,
if I fall asleep.

There is this crowd that walks with me
when I walk alone.
Some dear ones sit around the table,
When I sit alone.

On a tired day, I sit by the fire.
In my head are some forgotten words
of a harvest song.
I hum that tune.
Off tune.
A chorus sings along.
When I sing alone.

This crowd is not of strangers.
They have names and I know them.
Warm breath, and warm hands.
So close I held them.

My first dog. 
Then the other one.
A bird, a mouse,
some dear patients, a mentor,
a friend or two.
A dear uncle and an aunt,
a sister, a brother,
a grandma, a dad, 
and yes, some children too.

As I smell a flower and look at the sky full of rain,
as I read a book or cook a meal,
they walk around me-
loving, chatting noiselessly.

They didn’t pass, and I didn’t move on.
Moving with me is the crowd.

At the stove, there is a familiar smell:
a recipe I know so well.
Grandma.

On another day,
the floor has my cut hair
falling to the ground.
It’s a shade of black and brown.
I have seen these colors and felt that exact hair run through my fingers.
I combed it back and kissed a head, to which I said
‘now go play’.
My child.

I laugh at a joke in the Reader’s Digest
and a dad seems to lean back on his chair, 
trying to catch his breath,
laughing just like that.
My father.

I tease a friend and know those words 
those that I said before.
Retold stories, 
shared memories.
Old friends.

They don’t move on, neither do I.
Moving with me is this crowd.

It could be painful
if I try to let them go,
like a part of me.
It’s crazy but comfortable
when I let them stay.
They are a part of me.

This crowd around me

The crowd helps me stand straighter,
hold my head higher,
extend my hand to a firm handshake
or to wipe a tear.

I don’t hold the memory
neither do I cry anymore.
I live and laugh loudly
quite like before.

They wait around,
Just in case I need a story,
Just in case I need a laugh
Or flavors of sips of tea.
They live with me,
the posthumous crowd.

---

Manisha Singh, M.D., is an Associate Professor in the Department of Internal Medicine in the College of Medicine at UAMS.

There are days I am disillusioned,
When I am bereft of my purpose,
Alone in my office,
Peering out my window
While the rain is pouring down.

Then I read their words,
Hear their voices,
Remember their faces, 
And relish their smiles.
Then I remember. . .

I am a champion for the learners,
A guide on their journey.
Their passion inspires me, 
And though I am their teacher,
They are teaching me.

I am not a healer,
Nor have I held a life in my hands.
Yet I peered into the eyes of those
Who will one day be healers
And hold my life in theirs.

Though I profess the intricacies
Of the body,
The art of the human form,
They convey a more noble cause
To restore it when broken.

They are my students.
I am but their teacher.
Since they give my life meaning,
Though they are not yet healers,
They are already healing me.

---

Edgar Meyer, Ph.D., is an assistant professor in the Department of Neurobiology and Developmental Sciences.

Do you ever feel like a shirt,
With wooden clips pinning your shoulders to the line,
Left blowing in the wind to dry,
With your colors bleaching under blue sky?
Do you ever feel like a sock,
Bought extra in a pack of three,
Left in the crease of a washing machine,
Each cycle bringing swirls of new dirt and clean?

Do you ever feel like a blazer,
Complementing a blue button up,
With fitting cuffs level with the first thumb,
And a flower-pinned lapel smelling sweet as plum?
Do you ever feel like fresh underwear,
Sought out like the last clean pair,
Slipping on with ease with only a folding crease,
And fitting the form of hips with fleeting Tide whiffs?

I feel everything,
I am a shirt that is both clean and dirty,
Cycling through the laundry each week,
Tidying myself for a new day,
Getting dirty the same day.

---

Mason Belue is a medical student at UAMS.