Vinu Rao, M1, Class of 2024
I.
from the dust emerged a swirling cyst of layers
tumbling into one another
until the father’s hands enveloped the incomplete.
his fingers laced together tight,
a squeeze away from crushing it all
and starting all over again,
he breathed and knew
he had formed
a seal his children cannot help but break.
II.
the children of god
burned and crushed and uprooted
flowers and trees of Eden
to find what will maim and disfigure
their naked bodies
the world would have heard their screams
when that which was whole
became broken,
if only they hadn’t learned
how to shoot the messenger
before he could reach the crown
III.
I used to think that the skin stretched tight around the chest would fly apart when cut, like two ends of a rubber band right as it breaks. There were no fluttering curtains to reveal pale white ribs at home,
shocked and shy to see the light of day. Rather, the layers sag when cleaved apart and spurt red like a drooling mouth. Gloved fingers twist slippery flaps of the incision taut for the cauterizer to separate the mess of pink and yellow inside. The fascia is studded by nerves, like tripwires placed to make it nearly as sensitive as the skin. Yet, no alarm rings and the ventilator continues to sigh. A trap planted deep inside my own body is sprung.
IV.
don’t lock your legs
(if it becomes too much)
tense your calves and thighs to squeeze the blood back up
(if it becomes too much)
put your head between your knees
(if it becomes too much)
of course, it’s shame I feel upon waking up to my world tilted further on its axis,
in sight of blood lifting through clear tubes
that rise from the yawning chest
of a man lying upon a vaulted altar,
unaware
that I lay prostrated below
with blood pooling in my mouth.
pay attention to the hands,
not the person underneath them.
IV.
at my worst,
I feel that I am no longer a student
but a voyeur to the blunting of senses.
Med Intima 