I put on somebody else's white coat--
In the pocket,
Cookies, quinine, a stethoscope.
They should have feared the female--
Those too ill to work,
Those too mad to think...
Entry through the skin is called subdural,
A kiss, a fever, this camp full of sleepers.
I made the sign of the cross.
I made diagnoses and prescriptions.
I had no training at all, and yet,
Many recovered and kissed my hand.
Many died and said nothing against me.
The toads were thick in the jungle, calling.
In my tent, I listened for my own heart beat, finding it strong and heady.
I took down the netting,
And dreamt of the curve of your hips as if I had gathered the hills above the hospital into my hands.
Sometimes the dead walk--
I disperse them with my happiness here,
In this delicious hell I stumbled into,
Smelling the glory and the endless easy blood.