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Poetry and Medicine
October 13, 2015

Mountain Clinic in Honduras

JAMA. 2015;314(14):1523. doi:10.1001/jama.2015.7716

Nothing should start like this:
a machete wound to the head,
that old metal smell lining
the back of the throat,
sutures by headlamp.

We sleep under tin roofs,
the walls green stucco in lamplight. 
Wrought iron doors front
a chorus of roosters and rising blue smoke,
mops across tile, transistor radios,
red earth climbing up houses in the rain.

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