The Medic
The Medic
He is calculated in measure and rhythm,
In words without rhymes,
For he is a medic and he is the ink pen
That silences death’s toll in time.
He never speaks, in its solemn sobriety
And his beauty rises to my pulse
Like the epiphany of a sonnet,
Or the sonata of a piano
Until, at last, a shard of his sanctuary
Unfolds within the fields, row on row,
He is an infantry medic, and I am young,
And he is healing it, that I may go.
For I am its exercise, and its pain,
The gripping jagged edge knife
Lead into the conviction that I may train.
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