- Psychiatric Times Vol 26 No 5
- Volume 26
- Issue 5
Teaching Rounds Poem
His hand is a farmer’s hand, nails outlined with crescents of black earth, skin calloused, tough as a paw.
His hand is a farmer's hand,
nails outlined with crescents of black
earth, skin calloused, tough as a paw.
With one finger he traces the wound
we plowed from sternum to pubis,
flicks the sharp tips of snipped catgut.
We all know what was buried inside.
His movements remind me of an afternoon
on the bank of the Li River when
I stroked the gray bark of an ancient
banyan tree, the sound of water flowing
below me, the wind brushing a beat
in the bamboo leaves. When I come back
the patient is crying. Our Attending answers
a routine page, an excuse to leave.
In the corridor, he demands a confession:
Who peeled back his bandage?
Who let him look? "It was the wind"
I want to say, "And the river," but
I keep quiet, eyes on his scrubbed fingers.
Articles in this issue
over 16 years ago
Antidepressants: Brand Name or Generic?over 16 years ago
Hypnoticsover 16 years ago
Introduction: The Art of Psychopharmacologyover 16 years ago
Parents Who Killover 16 years ago
Woody Allen and Vicky, Cristina, Barcelonaover 16 years ago
Comfortably Numb: How Psychiatry Is Medicating a NationNewsletter
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