Ten Bodies

Reflection from a surgeon during COVID-19

Ten people died last night.
Ten people in body bags piled up
Like dirty rags on top of
The forty-six others —
In the back of a refrigerator truck behind the hospital.
Steel heart as I might, I cannot
Lose sight of the sanctity of human life.
Even on this war-torn, forlorn, God-forsaken rock.
I cannot.
The only thing is (and the thing is)
There was not a damn thing I could do about it.

Have you ever wheeled someone to the operating room,
sliced
them open, removed what’s dead and pussed out,
Only to have them die after surgery anyway?
Cussed out pussed out
From cussed to dust, I have
Had my hands inside someone when
The life-saving potential was less than fifty-fifty.
It’s a singular experience.

Even still. Steel.
There was something I could cut out. There was
something I
could do.
Now there’s nothing for me to attack with my knives, no
offending organ,
no visible enemy marching up the field. I can’t
slash my way to this solution, can’t rip out the rebel lungs.
My toolset is useless in this sad setting.