When I work the medical wards
in my psychiatrist’s white robe,
the nurses applaud when I weave
my spell and the paralyzed walk.
I like to show them my methods,
the words I chant, my pillow-fluff
distraction technique, the silver Cross
pen I flourish to write orders
in Medicine’s mystical tongue.
And when they see what I hide
up my white coat sleeve,
they understand that magic
is not magic, but a set of moves
doctors practice for years, confident
we can saw our patients in half,
skilled enough to make them whole.