Poetry

It’s okay to rip flowers out
and to set fire to vines,
to pluck petals off without
counting to love me
or love me not.

It’s okay to let fruit spoil
without giving it a chance
to taste sweet.

It’s okay to have weeds and bees
and birdbaths full of June bugs,
to plant watermelon seeds
that will never grow.

It’s okay to cut the heads off roses
and to water the bush that will never bloom.
It’s okay to dance
in a garden of goodbyes
to let go,

to make room.

About the Author:

Hannah Erlbacher is a medical student at the Carver College of Medicine. Her favorite medium is poetry.

Build yourself, do not erase it, the instructor says 
when she talks about beliefs,
that a client’s or patient’s will differ from mine. 
Still, I try to be absent,
void of opinion,
as though my nothing will make room for someone else—
everyone else, 
so
I stacked steel beams and plaster.

When she sees the bony structure, the instructor begs:
what do you believe?
I sand the popcorn ceiling,
and I try to be considerate
while her mouth seems to water,
while mine is a vacuum
that sucks and sucks until the cavity dries,
I
treasure this great blank canvas.

So she asks about my childhood, my church, my enemies
How I may see them in the frame.
The mortal coil is design!
How easy to say by clay sculpture,
furnished with Calacatta.
With no pennies and no eye, I
sprawl across the cool tile, fingers in the corners, 
and
command my vessel to leak. 

This piece hopes to serve as an exploration of the self and responsibility as a provider in the medical field; in a system of people serving people, a provider must build a space for themselves and a client/patient” – Lexys Sillin

About the Creator

Lexys Sillin is a nonfiction writer that largely pulls from her own experiences with family, mental health, and grief as inspiration. She currently serves as a first-year student of Marriage and Family Therapy at Mount Mercy. Lexys lives with her two cats and her husband, Mason, who generously proofreads all of her work, including this bio.

Out of place and in fear of showing who I am
I am the disgraced Moor who killed the lamb
He swore to love because the burning
In my heart came from the yearning
To be a part but We are not
We are at the edge
Despite making a true pledge
To care for my sweet love
The pure, white, faithful doe
But the realm of the exiled Dante
Brings out the brazen ox that slays
The truth as that envious fox
Confirms my own doubt that locks
My mind from those I refuse to heed
Because I am only who I read

Love or hate I cannot tell
But my addiction is my alarm bell
And it is also my remote
That controls me and keeps me afloat
There! Is that him? My heart flutters
No. Just sea foam from the rudders
I must find that devilish God
To prove he is nothing but a fraud
I force the crew upon the rowboat
He is in the waters but will come to gloat
I will slay that beast soon, 
As I drive him through with my harpoon
But what will I do after, and if, I succeed
Because I am only who I read

I was made, yet for what
Even my makers do not know, but
I am what I am and have become
Something you do not like, not the son
You had wanted, but a monster,
A monster you cast aside, righteous doctor.
All because I am what I am and so
Punish me for not fitting the status quo
You will not give me freedom
Nor allow me into your, or any, Eden

All I wanted was someone

But your self-hatred, now projected
Onto me, the thing you dissected,
Follows me to the edge of the earth
But now I realized what you gave birth
To. I am a monster to you, silver spoon
Human, but I am beyond your bleak cocoon
I am eternal and rule the northern glacier
A romantic undead between you and nature.
Eventually you will be nothing but history
But I will remain the immortal mystery
That all will remember as your name—your deed—
Because I am only who I read

Whether a Moor
Or a white whale whore
Or an undead gore
Each book opens a door
To another person that craves more
I wonder who will be number four

Being able to relate to a character in a book or other narrative story is a mark of a well-crafted character. Going through various classical characters in this poem, the narrator connects to each of their stories.” – Zain Mehdi

About the Creator

Zain Mehdi is an M1 at the University of Iowa Carver College of Medicine. He previously studied molecular and cell biology and English at Cornell University. Originally from Pittsburgh, Zain has had a passion for drawing, painting, and writing since kindergarten.

No one understands what I mean

when I say I cried the day I saw your hands

I thought I’d gotten to know you well, but I hadn’t.

No one understands what I mean

when I say I cried the day I saw your feet

or the day we each grabbed the piece of cloth, counted to three

I cried the day I saw your face for the first time,

the day I saw your eyes—

when I wondered what they had seen and who had loved them.

Now there is no going back to anonymity,

no storing feelings neatly on a top shelf out of reach—

no hiding from all that we are and all that we aren’t

or the one difference between you and me.

A piece about my experience in anatomy lab and my contemplation of mortality” – Hannah Erlbacher

About the Creator

Hannah Erlbacher is a first year medical student at the Carver College of Medicine.

I’ve acquired a condition not spread by microbes nor kin.

I feel it spread through my bones and burn into my skin. 

The Prognosis: uncertain.

Its Duration: Till it’s curtains?

Transmission: Blood, Sweat, Tears, and Semantics. 

Resistant to: Varenicline (aka Chantix)

Provoked by: 

intussusceptions, misdirections, and strivings for perfection.

Lectures and Powerpoints achingly verbose.

The trivia stated by our dear provost.

I hear the words, “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.” 

A hopeful cross-section of my heart grows necrotic.

With every, pulse I fear it shall turn sclerotic. 

A love affair with an illusion.

A delusion which clozapine can’t dispel. 

…Fine, I’ll play-along in this arriviste tourney.

A trifle in my overall journey. 

The intricacies of the neurohypophysis won’t end my cadenza trifecta,

 from my sonata Iatrogenesis Imperfecta. 

About the Creator:

John Wagoner is a 3rd year Doctor of Osteopathic Medical Student in the Midwest.

Forcing myself out of bed at 10:30am
and pouring a cup of coffee
our kitchen windows frosted over from
the bitter November air.
I open Twitter. Only bad news. I close Twitter.
My laptop is staring at me from over there.

I grind my teeth and dig my nails into my palms when I open up the PowerPoints
that have been shuffled from today
to tomorrow
to next week;
the apathy stands in my way.

My eyes sting with tears that won’t come
out as I stare blankly at the screen
feeling numb from the SSRI I just swallowed it’s better
than feeling full of dread, I guess. What happened to
the girl who always wanted to do her best? And now
she just needs endless rest?

“By the end of this lecture you should be able to—​”
—​what? Make some toast? Climb back into bed?
Use what little energy and motivation I have to
process the endless stream of evil
(violence
viruses
hatred
death)
that lives rent-free inside my head?

Allowing myself to fall under the blankets and
sipping some water before closing my eyes with
the windows dark, blocking out the world and
my “responsibilities”.
I just don’t have the energy,
I’m chained up by this apathy.

Author: Anonymous

I stoop close to the ground, conforming to
the ribboned trees inside my dark forest;
my striped patterns have distorted my form.
Ah, there—a deer—eyes peer into the shades.
Restive creature, weak, always in fear—not me.     

It quickly gawks over its shoulder with
its cracking eyes. But mine—twin shining suns
can bore and shatter its blank gaze—no hope.
It scampers in circles like falling leaves
I laugh as I swim into the dripping light,             

exploding off the ground, debris flying.
Erupting like a volcano of black
and orange, roaring, quaking the frail earth,
I land on the buckling deer and sink
my mighty teeth into its feathery flesh             

and feel a red river dripping out of
its neck, metallic splashing on my tongue.
I rip each piece of my pathetic prey
And dig deeper as its black eyes vacate
With such lust and strength, I am invincible.       

I sniff. What is that putrid stench I smell?
It stings my eyes and burns my throat and fur.
A shadow cloud, obscuring my dimmed gaze
eruptions of fire from gleaming pipes,
and thunderous metal claws ribbon the trees.    

I see the soft, pink flesh of these beings.
They look so frail behind their coats, like deer
except their tools are indomitable.
They slash through everything without a care
I proceed slowly until fear takes wing            

and see the abyss of their eyes and freeze.
I think to run but my muscles are stiff. 
I whimper and think of the prey I tore
I look into these strange blue eyes, piercing me     

and feel my timid eyes begin to shatter
as fires eat me, their talons rake me
and I see my blood flow and spew from me
then I sleep with my friend, the deer, the weak
I am the prey; they are the predators.

“Deforestation, environmental destruction, and climate disregard remain significant problems the world faces. This poem seeks to personifies the role reversal of predator and prey for an apex predator that is due to the actions of humans.”

— Zain Mehdi

About the Creators:

Poet: Zain Mehdi is a first year medical student at the Carver College of Medicine.

Illustrator: Sahaana Arumugam is a second-year MSTP student at the Carver College of Medicine.

Trigger warning: Suicidal ideations/depression

Sometimes I fantasize dying.

Of slowly drifting into oblivion.

The thoughts cover me like a thick blanket,

Giving me peace.

Somewhere to hide.

I won’t leave, no. Never –

But sometimes I just want to stop.

Of this we can all relate.

I relish in the happiness of others,

Bask in their genuine smiles,

Feel a flicker of joy in witnessing love.

These things I long to call mine –

But fear I do not deserve.

I am not my illness and yet

I cannot seem to cure me.

So instead I will work

Passionately, fervently –

To heal those around me

I cannot live. but life I can give.

-Unwellness in medicine

“A little piece to normalize depression and mental health issues in medicine. As future providers, we need to let go of the fear and shame of sharing our struggles and setbacks. Vulnerability is powerful and vulnerability can save lives.”
– Stephanie Saey

About the Poet:

Stephanie Saey is a M2 at the Carver College of Medicine.

In recognition of National Coming Out Day on October 11th, The Appendix would like to highlight the importance of LGBTQ diversity in healthcare and shed light on care for LGBTQ populations. Below is a poetic essay on coming out by Nathen Spitz:

The plush passenger seat of your grandmother’s sky-blue Pontiac pushes against my back as I settle in for a ride neither of us will ever forget. Dust blows behind as we rush down the compact gravel roads with no destination in mind, and I turn the radio on to hear the static of a station struggling to convey its message.

Cruising between rows of meticulously planted corn, I tell you there was a reason I asked for us to go for a drive—there was something I’ve been needing to say. I anxiously drum my fingers on my legs and tap my feet at a quickening pace. My pulse races as I try to remain stoic to not show the fear of rejection on my face.

We say that we tell each other everything, but there is one secret that I’ve kept. One that I’ve carried with me for years—one that has stolen my breath while I wept. The dam inside my heart that is holding back a flood of years of fears begins to crack, and I know that once I say it, there is no going back. I am terrified that once I change the channel, you aren’t going to like the song playing in my heart that has been waiting to start.

I ask you to pull over and you press heavily on the brakes. It takes all my strength to bring to my lips what I’ve been waiting years to say to someone other than the reflection I hated in mirrors—I am gay.

I turn the tuner. Now on the same wavelength at last, we rush down the road with a clarity in our connection, no more fear of being outcast. We turn up the volume as we can hear each other clearly now—static, just a memory of the past.

“I was and am extremely fortunate to have friends and family that have supported me throughout my coming out process–which I know is not the same for everyone throughout the country. As I struggled with coming to terms with who I was, I didn’t really have any role models aside from those in TV shows to look up to. It was and is always important for me to come out to be more ‘visible’ for the next generation of LGBTQ+ people and future doctors that they may see it is possible to live out their truth as well.”

-Nathen Spitz

About the Creator:

Nathen Spitz is an M2 at the Carver College of Medicine. When not studying, you can find him up in the gym just working on his fitness, binging the latest Netflix show, or planning his next concert.

In recognition of National Coming Out Day on October 11th, The Appendix would like to highlight the importance of LGBTQ diversity in healthcare and shed light on care for LGBTQ populations. Below is a poem on coming out by Kenzie McKnight:

I found myself in a closet.
It was a dark closet. All I wanted to do was get out of that closet, that dark, dark closet.
So I opened the closet door and…
I found myself in my apartment bedroom—my artwork ripped to pieces, scattered across the floor and my TV toppled over and cracked at the base.
I opened the door again and…
I found myself walking the streets at night—my eyes swollen with tears and my closest friends by my side.
I opened the door again and…
I found myself in the emergency room—my wrist adorned with a white, paper wristband and the muffled voices of physicians eliciting my story while I stared up at the ceiling.
I opened the door again and…
I found myself in a hospital ward—my belongings stripped from my possession and an unbearable anxiety washing over me through a long, sleepless night.
I opened the door again and… I found myself in a therapist’s office—my repressed feelings spewing into the open and a pile of crumpled tissues lying next to me.
I opened the door once again and…
I was no longer in a dark closet.
I found myself in a brighter world—my family and friends welcoming me with their support and my experiences behind me, but forever shaping who I will become.

About the Creator:

My name is Kenzie McKnight and I am an M2. I want to highlight that this is by no means the worst outcome in struggling with my sexuality, and it is by no means the best. Everyone has varied experiences. I am lucky that I have such supportive family and friends and I can (mostly) be myself. Others cannot say the same. Although I am out, I still deal with the occasional slur thrown at me by a passing citizen and the constant anxiety of wondering if every new person I meet will be okay my sexuality.