Medicine is magical and magical is all I think of
Like a slo-mo replay of an epic fumble
My M.A. plops yet another chart on my desk,
says, room one.
Forever practicing her modern hieroglyphics,
under "chief complaint" she's written,
"25 y/o O+ c/o N/V x 2 wks (+K9)"
Postman or doctor?
As a courtesy, I always knock twice
before entering the exam room
and for a fleeting second,
I'm startled to see a large white German
Shepherd guarding the middle of the room.
The patient, malaised but not moribund,
perched atop the examining table,
says, down Zeus.
I introduce myself,
to both beauty and beast,
ask about her symptoms.
She says she's felt intermittently queasy
for a couple of weeks, mostly in the mornings,
but no diarrhea, abdominal pain, or fever.
Zeus's hackles rise
as I conduct my physical examination:
heart regular, lungs clear, abdomen soft, breasts slightly tender, trace ankle edema.
So I ask Leda about her menstrual periods—
she says, It's difficult to keep track,
I'm not always regular.
Then her eyes fly open—
she cries, Can't be, I haven't been with anyone
in a thousand years.
Just then, Zeus lets out a single bark—
as a slow blush creeps
up Leda's swan-like neck.