Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Yin and Yang

Petite, hunched Chinese medicene man leans forward
  his birdlike eyes darting up and down my tense frame
     one liver-spotted hand reaches out to locate my spastic pulse,
        the other gently, ever so gently, cups the end of a stethescope to my heart


We sit silently as Roman statues in the cold sterile room
     I examine the whisps of hair on his head and his small feet on the floor
          Our breaths fall in line unconsiously, starchy and slow
              we hold our intimate pose, as if we have been here a million times before


He leans backs gradually, his paw darts back in to his creased white pocket
      I look into his soulful eyes and see the judgement of a thousand suns
          He has seen this story before--knows it will always come to a pained grin
              then he will say he cannot fix what is wrong with me

2 comments:

dustus said...

Excellent descriptions creating a clear setting and mood. The end expresses pain in futility in not knowing one's condition. Well done!

Kim Nelson said...

That last line wrenches.