Blind Spots

I'm learning to bend the first notes
on the "Black Magic Woman" solo
when I ask my teacher, "What guitar
did Santana play at Woodstock?"
He just keeps strumming and lifts
his eyes to the poster over his head,
the same one I've stared at every
Wednesday for the past eight years,
the same star-burst Les Paul Classic
that hangs from my shoulders.
My throat constricts with the nausea
I remember from medical school
when I couldn't see the obvious--
sharp splinters of blood in a patient's nail bed
or a hemorrhage in an optic disc,
clear to those who knew how to look,
my patients risking their lives
while they watch me practice their songs.