Pour, life, your emerald vial,
Sift within all the pill-drops, then
Hold men ten, and ten for trial
And see which one wakes up again.

On darkened night, eyes lay their lids
And in dreams let the fevered rest.
Medica laeta by me bids
And I in loft her conscience test.

In rabid claw, syringe imparts
To strains of lead the end of days.
Not ventured though but proven arts
Show deathly salve, do Laz’rus raise.

To every ill there just may be,
The ill-at-ease who targets that.
Where rest be got, stand, squint, and see
Where Medica misera sat.

Notes:

This was the first poem I wrote about my Iris. Medica is the Latin term for female physician (medicus for the male physician). Laeta means happy, and misera, miserable. I wrote this poem in wishful thinking that I could make her happy when she seemed sad.

I wrote this poem during the last visit to the clinic in which I saw my Iris face to face there: I was remembering my last appointment with my physician as I was waiting for her. When I saw her then, she looked tired. Her face was paler, a halo of darkness encircled her eyes, and her posture signaled fatigue. She was resigned in her chair, a chair that was twice her size and she slumped on it. I was concerned.

She wasn’t so, the time before that. When I saw her, she was jolly (even jovial) then. She was smiling, and she laughed at something funny I said. (That usually doesn’t mean anything in matter of attraction, but I treasured her chuckle.)

I had the strong urge to ask her if she was feeling well now, if she slept last night, and if she was doing alright over all. It bothered me that I knew she wasn’t doing well for whatever reason, and I could not have done anything about it. I wish I was brave enough to say something. I only asked her how she was, and she said she was okay. Not a word more. I dared not ask her anything else, as that would be intruding on her privacy. I wanted to hug her and tell her I was there for her; I wanted her to know that if she wanted to vent, I would have been there for her. But that was not up to me to decide.

When my number came, the poem was still unfinished. I tentatively entitled it medica misera, from the Latin, ‘the unhappy physician.’ That day, she was blooming, and cheery, and she smiled and I shared her happiness and enthusiasm. I retitled the poem, medica laeta, ‘The happy physician.’ Seeing her that day was one of the happiest moments of my life. I felt so safe and secure in her presence. I am always comfortable and soft when I am with her. Wish of wishes, happy would I be, if I could see her again.

I wanted to ask her if I could get her books from the bookstore, but I completely forgot. My forgetfulness brought problems that I did not anticipate. Just as I got out of the clinic, the sky was raining. I came walking to the clinic (our house is very close) and I got stuck there. A neighbor picked me up and took me home. I returned home and sank into bed with butterflies in my stomach.

I wish I could share the poem with her, but that is now a matter of the past.

Surra,
November, 2023.