I’ve only been at my fellowship gig a week, but It’s official, I’m a candy-striper. Sort of, I wear a blue vest, not the old, red-striped dress, but it’s the same job. I shadow my surgeon (Rebecca) most of the time, like when she does her rounds but otherwise, I study or try to be helpful by delivering specimens to the lab, messengering things from Rebecca to other doctors or assisting the nursing staff with very minor, mundane things.

My training, so far, has consisted more of what-nots than anything else. “You are not a doctor, you don’t comment, don’t advise, don’t touch anything, don’t perform CPR and if a medical emergency occurs, get out of the way - put your back against the wall.” I made up the “back against the wall” part but that’s the soul of it. I’m just an observant pair of eyes and ears or a Yale lampshade.

When Rebecca (my surgeon) does rounds, she usually has five or six interns in tow (medical school graduates who are first-year residents). The interns review patient charts and get quizzed about symptoms, their meanings and possible treatments. It’s very interesting to watch the process up close - these people are wicked-smart (that’s a Boston saying).

Growing up, my parents were both doctors. I found myself standing, listlessly, a million times, waiting in hospital corridors or by nurses' stations for one or both of them to break free so we could leave. I was exposed to 17 years of medical jargon, as they discussed treatments with other doctors or passed on their final instructions for the night. I’d roll my eyes impatiently, but I guess I absorbed more than I realized. I can pretty much follow the consults as they do the rounds.

I met two new people last week, who I think I’ll see a lot of - Jammie and Quinn. They’re both rising-juniors and fellows, from other schools, working with other surgeons. Jammie’s a handsome, gay, black man from Georgetown University (my brother Brice’s Alma mater). He’s loud, fun and smart, very smart.

Quinn, on the other hand, seems like a short, officious little ****. When we were introduced, he cast his eyes over me slowly and deliberately like a frat-boy or an experienced stock ******* and from the way he talks, you’d think he owned the place. He’s from some second rate, local college, called Harvard.

Funny story, Jammie and I had just met and we were looking-up some fellowship information, on his laptop, I was looking over his shoulder and as he flipped around - his computer files and folders were SO organized - there wasn’t a stray file anywhere - not one. As we were huddled closely together I said, conversationally, because where I come from it means nothing and I guess I have no filters, “Are you gay?” He cringed, shocked, and laughingly said “SHHH!” He wasn’t “out” at work. I swore his secret safe and we became fast friends.

Jammie, besides being a molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major (pre-med track), is an observational comedian and as he’s thinking out loud - at a hundred miles an hour - I wish I could record him, so I could play him back later, slowly and deliciously to take it all in. We had lunch together in the cafeteria Friday and when our time was up, I discovered I hadn’t eaten anything. I’d been too busy listening to him open-mouthed or laughing.

I also realized I’m spoiled and not used to working indoors all day. We come in at 8 and we're released at 4:30. It’s almost a shock to see the sky isn’t fluorescent-lit and the breeze isn’t tainted with antiseptic smells. That was fellowship week 1.

No minor issue can be made
of the stinking discomfort
my body has become
because of the remix with pills
trying out
better versions of me

With a mouthful of Latin
the doctor lets everyone
speechless with bated breath
in the danger zone
of my sweat and gases
have a look

into the cold beak
between my legs
There I lie
thinking of the cloud
of friends around my bed
in which I relieve my soul

Another visit to
Med Psych;
the withdrawals are
horrendous.
I’m emaciated and malnourished.
With the exception of
one meal every few
days, I’ve dined on ***** and
wine for my sustenance.

I check out a lap top from
the patient library, and
try to get the poems organized on
my flash drive.
Concentration is elusive.

The psych doctor decides
to have me committed.
She’s concerned about my
worsening health and depression.
I guess I can’t  
blame her, but what
bird likes a cage?

I try to talk her
out of it,
but she’s resolute.

The next day, just
as the deputy is
serving me the
committal papers, I have
a seizure—a bad one.
My lips turn blue.
I **** myself.
The doctors pump me full
of Ativan.  Everything is a  
blur for the next
week.
Slowly, softly,
my mind comes back.

I get a room-mate;
turns out he’s an
artist, a fantastic
abstract painter,
his name’s Chris.
Chris gets the activity
director to bring
him some paints and
other art supplies.

He goes to work;
stabbing the paper
with his brush—
makes it bleed with
color.  He’s a young  
drunk;
a madman and a  
genius.
I have my notebook and
my sword.
I pound out the word, the line,
my highway through this
silly society.

Chris and I talked
long into the autumn
night, locked in a  
cerebral prison.

The room we were in
was more like a Greenwich Village
beat pad than it was a  
hospital room.

You said you'd help me live my dream
Instead you trap me until I scream
Loud enough to wash you clean
Of all the things you think of me

Left on my own you think I'll drown
But really truly I need the sound
Of music to play and keep me down
From floating too high up off the ground

When I float it seems so grand
I don't need a single hand
To hold me, protect me from the land
Of my mind that's filled with biting sand

And what happens when you let me go?
Do I run and jump, magically better? No
Instead I fall and crash and so
You reel me back into the throes

Back to the stained white walls
And sterile silent deadly halls
That should keep away the thoughts that call
Me to push until I fall

How can you protect me from my brain
Fueled by the blood flowing through my veins
The chemicals messed up broken insane
Leading me to fly away with the cranes

In the hospital

lounge he takes a seat and falls --


asleep exhausted.

My dad takes me to the hospital on his bike.
It’s icy and he wears his sheepskin gauntlets
and I’m grateful to shelter behind him

secure in his familiar gruff intolerance.
This is not the first time he’s taken TOIL for me
and his frustration radiates through his layers

but this two-of-us space is still delicious,
still precious for its rare warmth.
And he parks, and we dismount like John Wayne,

and the wall of his leather back takes the lead
as I stride into outpatients in his impatient wake,
making demands for his boy from the nervous staff

and taking relief from the update on my progress
and for the scar that gives me some hope of distinctiveness
and a source of stories for years to come.

Stories with my dad.

Why doesn’t that bed,
Have a patient.
Why pay for nature,
When it wants us dead.

Smell the fresh air,
Enjoy the colours.
Those evolved scents,
Placate places we do not feel.

Build over it,
Put another clinic in.
Where will we go,
To remember ourselves though.

Does not matter,
Clink followed clank.
Automation winnowing expertise,
Life is what we make it.

I remember an old guy he was an alcoholic hospitalized with me, he used to cut his cigarette filter so it guests stronger, I do the same sometimes, I wonder what he’s doing now. When we used to ask him he used to say “I’m already messed up there’s nothing left to ruin” I wonder if he’s okay now if he finally has something to ruin, I wonder if I do too, and then I remember you. I remember your eyes looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters in this universe, I remember, how u could know if I was asleep or pretending to avoid a conversation, you said my eyes smiled when I fell asleep, I dont know what you meant by that, but it made me smile. I remember you proposing to me with a pine cone, and promising me you will do it again one day, but for real. I remember spending two days locked in a car with you, you were worried about me, you wouldn’t leave, we slept uncomfortably, but we were still comfortable cuz I was in your arms and you were in mine.
I remember dancing with you in the er as we waited for me to be admitted, it was cringy and cheesy but I didn’t care, in your arms the only thing I care for is you. I remember your lips on mine and how they tasted, I remember how the universe exploded but disappeared at the same time when you kissed me for the first time. I remember when You pinned me me against the wall and kissed me as if I was the only running river in a drought. I remember the flowers I sent you and how you keep them, I remember how u put my birthday gift in a box filled with those same flowers that you dried, it was a necklace a ring with wings, it was a promise. A promise that one day, we’ll have everything, we’ll have a house with a garden, and cats, so many cats, one day we’ll have kids and I’ll tell them how much their dad loved their mom, that’s how they’ll learn what love really is, one day we will have something to ruin, we will have everything to ruin, but we won’t