her hands.

Her hands had wrinkles,

Like little valleys carved into her skin,

Veins, dark and stark, purple and blue,

Appearing overnight like honeysuckle dew.

Droopy and withered away with age,

They shook and shook, her hands so small

And wavered like an autumn leaf about to fall.

And so, I held her hand,

Her hand trembling, like a flower unfurling for the first time,

Mine steady, as an old, aged oak.

Her voice, saying words in soft, slurred speech,

Heal me, honey, heal these aching hands of mine.

See those little bottles on the wall with the little pink pills.

They wear me down, baby.

Keep me dosed and drugged up, maybe,

But in time, someday soon you’ll see

Everyone’s in the hospital someday.

And so, I held her hand,

Her hand sure, with conviction and age,

Mine young, as a newborn blinking for the first time.

She was ill, her mind was hazy and her hands shook.

And they said, she’s slowly wearing down,

Old age and disease spreading like moss on the ground,

Ugly and brittle like a lingering stench.

And so, they gave her no little, sweet lies.

They just looked at her with sad, sad eyes,

Disgusted and disparaging and waving her away,

Saying she won’t be the same.

She was ill and unwanted, but

Her eyes were clear and a gentle, delicate brown

As we talked, hand in hand.

Yes, for you, your path is healing, she said.

You should lead the pack, don’t be led.

Be strong, though these arduous years,

Filled with vigorous work and tears

And be the doctor that holds the hand with compassion.

The one that knows one day he’ll be here, sick and ill,

Taking these drugs, this horrible pink pill.

Just don’t be the doctor who only sees the patient

As blackened and disfigured and dirty with disease.

clay.

your feet were clay, cracked and speckled and dirty

so i hold them, mold them, and shape them, thumbing the arch

smoothing, removing the creases between your toes

moving my hands in lovely little rows.

i cup the heel, feeling its weight and sturdiness

and i blend in the imperfections,

With great thought and pride, erased them from sight

and removed the gauze of dirt by casting some light.

i kneed them, taking away the calluses from hard work

and the cuts from old wounds, from walking on glass

from tiptoeing on fire, from running through the tall grass,

from dancing in the stream, from rainshowers on the distant shore,

from climbing those rocks and trees to be higher than you were before.

But,

You never stood still. Never for a moment

Can't you see, how perfect you are?

How you shouldn't sully your world with

Whirls and swirls, and sparks and marks,

Of flavor and color, and thought and journeys?

I want to create a smooth, slender expanse of brown

so that you may stand tall, rooted in the ground

Planted and firmly in place, holding your poise and grace.

Why must you go out, and let these cracks collect

Speckles and shards which only reflect

your loss of purity and convoluted luminescence?

feet of clay : a vulnerability, a failing, or a weakness

- Book of Daniel in the Bible

Words

Words are the only comfort in this solitude. I have so much to say, I want to pack all the thoughts swirling in my head in this room. But there's no one to listen to these obscure letters and sounds. So, I twist them around and shape them, wrapping them around my tongue like they're the most succulent of flavors. Sometimes, I believe I can make the world change and morph, sparking with new thought and colors more vibrant than the sun. But, when there is only silence all around me, echoing like a stark canyon in the breeze, I feel the stillness. The words choke in my throat, lump like clumps of sand in my hand, fade like the sun in mourning. I can feel the cold then, spreading from my toes to the tips of my fingers, tingling and stinging like tears on my raw, red cheeks. like icicles freezing in the frigid air. Why can we not go back to the time when our vocabulary was not limited by slang and abbreviations, when poetry was in every syllable like the sweetest scent of honeysuckle in the humid, sticky summer air? Maybe someday, people will talk like they enjoy every word. Making art in their phrases, building sculptures with their voices, or drowning out the static silence with their crescendo of adjectives. I feel the words on my lips, moist and sweet like fresh rain water. It is only time until i find the strength to let them out.

.. leena

Wasted

.
I don't want to waste my time thinking about formulas, chemicals, and body plans. I don't want to waste my time thinking about complaints, pains, casualties, and deep bone aches. I want to let my spirit and soul run free, like children in an open field with the wide blue sky above them. The sun sparkling like champagne, glittering like soft teary eyes. I want the colors to absorb into my skin, forming patches of blended lovely messes. Messes of creativity and imagination and peace.

I don't want to think straight and logical and rational and perpendicular. I want to be organic, free flowing like a river carving its own path on the newborn earth. I don't want to waste my time listening to the droning of judicious voices, when all I feel is this high paced world spinning around me. I don't want to waste my time on high brow attitudes and intellect as my only companion. I want to hear the soft lullaby of the sea, rushes of sound and silence. I want to hear the whispers of legends of places I've never been. When you could discover and feel all that's in your heart, why would you want to cut open a heart and carve out a piece in a sterile silent room?

.. leena

Me.

.
i am a medical student. but i have recently discovered (or rather rediscovered) the power of words and thought. i am trapped in a world of my making, in a world of science and industry, fast and scribbled notes that hardly make sense. in a world of scientific, etiological words like cauda equina and levator ani and pollicis brevis. where we examine bodies and see them as parts, like a mechanic would see a car, (what's out of order, what's not functioning?) instead of looking at symphonies of beauty in every inch of luminous skin, or admiring the glossy undertone of muscles. in a world brimming with the labyrinth of messy words and scalpels and dissecting the human body until all you see is raw aching skin and tired cut down nerves. until you hold each organ in your hand, feeling its weight and density, detached from the fact that this was a person. until you hold a heart in your hand, still and unbeating, changeless and hapless and then, you realize, perhaps you should examine your own heart, feel its weight, and hear its thoughts.

.. leena