scalpels at supper
It seems they’re hardly ever there together,
but still each night she makes a meal for two.
She understands the weight the scalpel bears;
he takes her place when power shifts at five.
They love their work, but hate the separation.
At times it’s hard to love each other quite enough.
He’s always saying they should quit obsessing
about the cuts: incisions, needles, guts.
She says that it’s ok for them to dwell
on things that they both love, that brought them here
to this: it’s
to eat the meal she made for them last night.
She just ate breakfast and he’s too tired
to eat. But for now, they just let it go.
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