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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