Home Visits with the Storyteller

摘要

Mid-July, 1970—you ran away with him to D.C.Even then, the rebellions were starting.This time, it was your body,lighting itself on firelittle by little, one bursa each month,tearing down its own house.Pain built an altar in your living room.Your neck teething.The bones in your hands picked apartby the rat beaks of seagulls.You've learned to dress your storyfor various occasions.You exaggerate and dilute with such ease.Mostly, you dress it down,the stiff clinic rooms, the acrid bathroom bleachwashing out. Anger dryinglike a basket of damp shirts.In this persistent snow, I think the attenuationof a marriage.Tonight, my neck is knottedinto a child's fistrefusing to uncurl.This is what little I know of pain:it consumes,it consumes.Even now, when you've lived throughthe burning, the worst of it,you don't drop crumbs for the way back.You will not indulge the wild animals.You have stepped into a different city.Editor's Note:The author writes, “This poem is a tribute to the patients I've met as a medical student. In honor of their powerful stories, I've written a poem about the power of storytelling.”Reproduction of this article is prohibited without written permission from the American College of Chest Physicians. See online for more details.Editor's note for authors of submissions to Pectoriloquy:Poems should not exceed 350 words, should not have been previously published, and should be related to concerns of physicians and medicine. First submissions to the Pectoriloquy Section should be submitted via e-mail to poetrychest@aol.com. Authors of accepted poems will be asked to submit the final version toCHESTManuscript Central.—Michael Zack, MD, FCCP? 2014 Published by Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. Access this article on ScienceDirect Visit ScienceDirect to see if you have access via your institution. Article Tools PDF (54 KB) Email Article Add to My Reading List Export Citation Create Citation Alert Cited by in Scopus (0) Request Permissions Order Reprints (100 minimum order)