When we rush in to find you pulseless,
I already know I will remember you
in a blaze of colors. The cells that choke your blood
have left your body vivid – a lilac rash
dotting your hands, brown curls wild
against your yellow-gray skin. But I do not wish
to remember the blueberry hue
staining your freckled cheeks
or the way your limbs curl across the floor.
When they declare you at 12:19 PM,
it does not seem final. You have always
been one to declare yourself. It seems
they should need your consent. But
as you fade, we draw the curtain,
tuck the white blanket under your chin,
and turn out the light.
Allison Shen is a third-year medical student at the University of Rochester. Despite her chronic writer’s block, she dreams of becoming a physician-writer someday. In addition to writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, and traveling. She has previously co-edited and been published in murmur and The Archive.
Photo by Eduard Militaru.