I want to close with maybe two last poems.
One I have just had fun reading, so I'm
going to just read it for that reason.
It's called "You Bring Out the Doctor in Me."
And actually, it was written after one of my favorite poems
by Sandra Cisneros, so I can't really
totally take credit for this.
But it's a little bit lighter than some of my other poems
tonight.
This is called "You Bring Out the Doctor in Me,
after Sandra Cisneros."
"You bring out the doctor in me, the smart perfume
of antiseptics, the possibly unsound heart
through the stethoscope, the naked under this paper
drape in me.
You bring out the this won't hurt a bit in me,
the scrubs that look like pajamas,
the crude anatomical diagrams, the skin
is the largest organ in me.
I'd let you draw my blood, the sting of my own needles,
the cold metal of fact in me.
Test it for secret love, for HIV.
I'd die for you, to have you in me, just you,
no latex, just you and me.
You bring out the health care proxy in me.
Do not resuscitate.
Do not intubate me.
You bring out the chaplain praying in me, the IV bag
hanging, glassy fluids in me, the nurse in white sneakers
toileting me, the morphine drip, the dream of you dreaming me.
Maybe I'm dying.
Maybe.
You bring out the helplessness in me,
the limits of knowledge in me, the inability to cry in me.
You bring out the doctor in me.
You can't cure me.
Adore me.
Let me show you love the only way I know how."