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Poetry and Medicine
September 15, 2020


JAMA. 2020;324(11):1112. doi:10.1001/jama.2020.5898

Your scars remind me of the silvery bottom of fish
before they turn upwards. When I was younger,
you took me fishing. The solution, you said, was not to
build more lakes. Instead, you gently unhooked
the smallest of fish before letting them wiggle away.
So easy to forget the crimson. Slowly dissipating
in the cool, still water and the budding morning light.

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