Physician, Heal Thyself

Physician; heal thyself

I am a healer.

I am a violent healer.

My tools are primitive and visceral; I drag out infection with salt and tweezers and a stolen knife ( I know it hurts, I’m sorry. )

I am a healer.

I am a violent healer.

My medicine is lacking and simple; it’s painkillers and faith and food ( I know it won’t heal you, I’m doing the best I can. )

I am a healer.

I am a violent healer.

My craft is old and visceral; it’s muscle memory examinations and fingers digging into internal knots and hot and cold compresses. ( I know it’s not easy to bear, this is what I have learned.)

I am a healer.

I am a violent healer.

No one has died, and I hold onto that like a saving prayer. No one is cured, and I hold onto that like a solemn oath. (I am sorrowful; I mourn, but no one has died. I cannot do more. I am violent, and weak, and unskilled, and it is not enough.) No one is dead.

Author's note:

I won't mince words; this is a poem about despair. More specifically, it is a poem about doing your best in the face of despair because that's all you have left. To do your best. It is also about the way household medicine is passed down through a family; in liu of the advanced medical technology available to real doctors, it's the memory of how to comfort someone in pain and lessen it. It's about the fact that kindness is not always painless; muscles loosened by hand are really very painful until they release. It's about the fact it hurts, but it's worthy work. At least no one has died yet, even if their life is painful. At least the infection has cleared. At least.

Completely unrelatedly, of course, it's a shame how medicine is so elitist. Can you imagine how much pain might be spared, if anyone could learn gentler ways to cure?

Moving onto the technical details, I really enjoyed the use of repetition in this piece, and the "quiet" voice within the parethesis. I would have liked to make it rhyme, but that didn't work out when writing it.