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Source — by Stacy Nigliazzo
He purged the sick with glinting
blades. Flayed their pain
into a sterile bowl.
Painted snowy trees on his days off
to try and forget.
When the white ran dry
he crushed pills to paste,
rounding out the landscape.
I carry his name,
dark hair and stethoscope;
spin words from thread to silver
on my days off
to try and forget.
Rotation — by Stacy Nigliazzo
I remember my first day as a student
in the OR.
It was winter, and just as cold
inside. We scrubbed
and cloaked ourselves in green gowns.
Shoe covers were required.
Out of the box they looked like pale boats
wrecked against the concrete floor.
The tread was silent.
During a routine Cholecystectomy,
the surgeon slapped an incised
gallbladder into my gloved hand.
It felt like a baby bird
collected from the sidewalk.
I held it for several minutes
before surrendering it to the pathology lab.
Aubade — by Stacy Nigliazzo
One of my first
patients
was a man with advanced
AIDS. He was admitted with altered
mental status and a fever.
As I leaned over to check
his colostomy site he smiled
and touched my breast,
saying he loved me.
His partner quickly pulled
his hand away and apologized.
By this time, the patient was signing
Blackbird
and waving his arms like a symphony
composer. His partner and I
continued the song until
he fell asleep.
Labor — by Stacy Nigliazzo
He was her fourth
child. The three before
had been taken by social services.
For the last nine
months she'd worn baggy clothes
to fool the case worker.
We ran out to the parking lot
with a stretcher and a box of gloves.
The head was out before
we reached the curb.
He was born with a caul--a veil
over his eyes. She cried
and said he was a seer;
a bearer of great things.
She insisted
we return it to her
pressed to paper;
unbroken.
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