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Poetry and Medicine
April 5, 2016


Author Affiliations
  • 1Newcastle, Washington
JAMA. 2016;315(13):1407. doi:10.1001/jama.2016.2443

My uncle invented this carapace
     where I lie prone on a pillow.
Tones pulse through my spine,
     a corpse in a copse.

I am a cadaver to be bisected,
     told and taken apart.
I stay as still
as on the day when,
      my eyes open,
          I am put beneath the earth.

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