It's nearly close of submissions for this year's Hippocrates Prize for poems on a medical theme. I am waiting for inspiration to strike. Here is what I wrote last year:
Holed up, hooked up, and surgically enclosed,
He convalesces, trapped within these walls.
Bare surfaces bear plumbing, part-exposed;
But he is warm inside. The future calls.
I ring his bell. He opens up and smiles.
We cannot kiss; I keep my hands contained;
But soon his clothes are strewn in ticklish piles
As tenderness is patiently explained.
Stripped skin which once turned in now clings unfurled;
Spliced ducts lie sheathed in flesh’s phoenix tomb;
A punctured navel, window on a world,
And keyhole slits commemorate his womb.
He beams, then screams, while showing off his toy.
Now forty, he was born to be a boy.
© Chris Young
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