Dear Whitecoats

You may have read more books.
You may have seen the insides
of a perfectly-preserved corpse.
You may have practiced your top stitch
until it was perfect,
and you may know the Latin roots
of requiescat,

but I do too.

I also know when breath
slips between screams
of pain and pleas,
your technique
may be the reason.

It wasn't her mind
playing tricks
or the opiates
you prescribed
to keep her quiet.

It didn't happen
until you
shoved your hands
beneath her skin
in surgery
after all.

Doesn't one-plus-one
still equal two?
How did you get three?

Fast forward
three years
and her chest
is pressed
into her back
by invisible weights.
She vomits,
and her mind senses
it is the end;
but you say it isn't.

What is it then?

You point to him,
he points to her,
she points to you.
No one knows
what to do.

 A resident
tries Nitro-
a quick fix
under the tongue.
The symptoms end.
The day is saved
even if you failed.
Again.

119 days
is all we get.
But her heart
ends up a fraction
of what it was.
Could we have
had more?
Should we have
had more?
I'll never know.

You stole
the time we had left
because you assumed
instead of assessed.
You may know a lot
about bodies and minds
and the anatomy inside;
but I know something
apparently you don't:

when a heart stops,
it might not be a side effect.