Aroog Khaliq, M3, Class of 2025
8 o’clock in the morning watching a red moon
blossom on a woman’s neck, holding open the
edges for the carpenters to saw and scrape, to
heal the way they know how—tiny blades, tinier
forges. the small, hurried movements of their
wrists a dance i cannot mimic with any grace,
and there is no room to stumble, not here.
10 o’clock in the morning, my own gloves stained
with blood from my little blunt efforts, retracting
that little moon into fullness, then snipping it into
an eternal crescent. the case is not yet over, even
when the deft hands still and away. still, there are
my bloody gloves, a woman under blue drapes,
wet and dry cloths on her sweet, slumbering face.
10:07, and i find my own deftness in the gentlest
touch, cloth wiping away orange iodine stains
around even the nares. good morning, ma’am—
you were here, and i, too, took care of you.
Med Intima 