“To Doris, On Her Retirement” by Elisabeth Preston-Hsu, MD, MPH

This poem is dedicated to Doris Armour, MD.

Leaving this season lush with life, you’ll connect

to a greener one. You’ve sketched a map

of terrains traveled to lay out the journeys ahead.

You’ve seen the microscopic proof of cells and vessels,

how grafting injury fastens matte finish of skin, its divinity

pinned on your hands, yet unfinished. You’ve written

an atlas of these wonders for me, shown me how

an injury may bring kindness, unexpected

nourishment, or a life undone. Where dusky tissue

leans into a penumbra of viability. Where epithelium

charts a sunrise. Where a pulse aches for its finding.

No matter that these roads may be uncanny:

Guide me through mysteries and wonders

where you’ve already stepped. For now, we stand

rooted in this season you’ve blessed. Soon,

you’ll be drowsing with books, settled

among family along far flung archipelagos strung

like charms on your bracelet. Listen to their

clink and rustle. Clasp God’s hand and look

to the sky where we watch the same stars.