Doctor doctor

My illness
is a part of me –
yet you, doctor,
try to cure it.

You heave your scalpel
into my brain –
the inquiring scientist
finds
nothing.

You attach your fingers
to the sound of my breast,
sorting through a maze of veins.
The stethoscope
hears
empty.

Your investigations reveal
puzzle after
puzzle.
How can the human body
defy your capable hands?

You – surgeon –
put your hands
on the skeleton
of my heart.

Aha!

Incurable disease
diagnosed
in the blood drenched words
of this writing paper.

 

1980s

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