They read sonnets for patients...
They read sonnets for patients
who died before they could say
goodbye, sestinas about apricots
and elephants, and odes to anxiety
beginners must master. Virgins
in their experience with death
certificates, insurance forms,
and the power of money,
they want nothing more
than the chance to change
the world, one patient at a time.
In their gaze I see my wife’s
green eyes the day we met,
kneeled on the bookstore floor,
the idealism she practiced
even when Medicine frayed her
like the cuffs of her first white coat.
And if there is a poetry of healing,
women, fearless in their show of love,
have taught me more than men.