See the world through her eyes, they instruct.
And I must,
I fancied they’d never find it so indisputably opportune.
Through blurry diplopia
An unstable world,
Your cancer,
The doctor’s mouth contorting to deliver bad news.
Twice.
Your vision attempting to guide you
Through jolt and auditory void.
Oh the irony-
You nobly care for aged souls,
Through the squeeze of your own demise.
Knowing all along they’d outlast you.
Your trembling index finger rises and generates
That familiar, slow and somber press
Propelling a penetrating gust of relief
To your unaccompanied lung,
Your left-sided right-hand man,
Who empowers you to sigh,
And blow out the candles on your sixty-fifth birthday.
Our gift will come far too soon.
Your beautiful digits
Grasp a pen with earnest
As you sign yourself away and grant us permission.
I myself feel sanguine today,
So in my sketch
You wear rose-colored glasses.
I gently guide my grease-ridden probe through your pupil
And tap on your cornea.
What a privilege.
What a twisted privilege.
Emily Gore is a first-year medical student who grew up in the suburbs of New York City. She has an appreciation for abstract art, waterfront promenades, and her parents’ Belarusian recipes. As an undergrad student across the street, she was EIC of The Journal of Undergraduate Research, and is happy to now be working in a space that’s a little more colorful.