As a physician, friend, and family member, I have witnessed many deaths. This poem is a contemplation of the many quiet, unseen ways those deaths have affected me.
I carry many deaths inside me though not as a cat is said to
or a saint bristling with arrows. Not as an oak
in winter flies its few brown flags of surrender.
Not the way the womb sheds its lush red lining. Not the way a virus storms
the cockpit of a cell but the way a man feeding pigeons in the park
watches each evening as they wander off when his hands are empty.