Karin Eli

Every twelve hours, our lives hung
together, lines entangled (antibiotics,
chemo, antibiotics), as we invited illness
to sit among us, drip feed, slowly
walk away. There was no battle,
just these white walls, plastic chairs,
and us, sharing speech and
silence, being and becoming,
counting down the days.

At school, after one morning’s treatment,
a teacher scolded me for saying
I couldn’t write with my cannulated hand.

At the clinic, that night, we held
each other’s springs like saplings,
like newborn lambs.

—

Karin Eli is a medical anthropologist. Her poems have appeared in Families, Systems, & Health, Journal of the American Geriatrics Society, Journal of General Internal Medicine, and The Healing Muse.