The Harvest

He stands like a farmer with hired hands

ready to begin the reaping:

two blue eyes and a heart,

the smooth liver shining like a prize

on a butcher’s tray, dirt brown kidneys

that turn blood into gold; limbs for grafting,

Winesap to Smokehouse, Red Roman to Empire.

They toil in a sterile field, pack produce on ice

fast as death’s freedom allows.

When they’ve tilled the grit worth saving,

he savors the moment like the last warm breeze

of summer, pulls out the irrigation,

piles tools for cleaning,

chatter rising like October crows,

a carcass emptied of all desire.

He notices the ache in his legs,

hot breath behind the mask, and he rests

a gloved hand on someone’s shoulder

just long enough to stop his shaking.

Dr Berlin has been writing a poem about his experience of being a doctor every month for the past 27 years in Psychiatric Times in a column called “Poetry of the Times.” He is an instructor in psychiatry, University of Massachusetts Medical School, Worcester, Massachusetts. His latest book is Tender Fences.