Safia Khan

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On Placement

I donned mask, visor, and apron, 
washed my hands the right way. 

I correctly identified an osteophyte 
at the acromioclavicular joint. 

I imagined the right diagnosis, 
suggested the wrong one, 
been humbled like pines after avalanche.  

I inspected behind the curtain, 
tried not to register relief 
when hers looked like mine. 

I translated incorrectly, and blamed my parents 
for speaking English in the house  
I tried not to flirt with the physiotherapist.

I donned mask, visor, and apron, 
washed my hands the right way. 

I noted an antibiotic prescription 
for a young wife’s sudden death, 
and a son’s hanging decades later. 

I ate fish and chips 
during discussion of a young boy,  
presenting with pain down there, 

removed from his mother after
witnessing her self-immolation.   
After, I wiped the mushy peas from my mouth. 

I vaccinated death in a red dressing gown.
I touched its eggshell, auscultated its yolk. 

I have heard ghosts blooming like spring mist 
through my stethoscope. 

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SAFIA KHAN is a medical student and poet. She has been published in The North, Introduction X: The Poetry Business Book of New Poets, and several Hive anthologies.