Wesley Chou
I hit the ground running, I tear down the street,
Needing to leave my musty room and its
Stale air. The rain is lifting and my shoes
Spray grey water up from the asphalt.
I run to the creek, its gentle trickle now
Turgid and engorging its former banks,
Consigned to a dull, endless roar. Even now,
The specter of people gasping
For breath remains, lungs
Bogged down by scum and pus.
I feel something well up in my chest,
Spider outwards, fury tearing
Through detached surveys of
Our foe’s armaments and its sketches of death
To which I have devoted myself
With growing obsession and unease.
I want to scream into the void of the insolent grey skies,
I demand lightning to rip apart
The very ground on which I stand, to grant this
Rage the canvas it so deserves
Before I callously rend it to shreds.
Damned be this foe that has laid us low,
Condemned many to die alone, and
Starved us from a friend’s touch.
I slow to a halt in the overgrown fields of a golf course,
Breath shuddering and supported on legs of cloth.
I take in the sights around me:
Countless mallards glide in a flooded depression.
A herd of deer gaze serenely at their new guest before
Nipping at the matted grass.
I watch their delicate gait as they meander to some trees,
How they perch on hind legs to reach the branches.
I watch for some time, before
I turn around and run upstream.
Wesley Chou
Harvard Medical School