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Poetry and Medicine
August 13, 2019

Neither Pause nor Gaze at What Is Passing

JAMA. 2019;322(6):584. doi:10.1001/jama.2019.4496

For weeks, she said little,
hummed moans in sweet chords, pale florets blooming
on cheeks, chest, breasts.

So much damage. The eye—
only a glimpse. Bloody, blind, suture-shut, tumor-thrust,
bulging from its socket.
Brain of invisible rocks and shards.
What is this death but a scream? Mercifully, she sleeps all day.

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