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Medicine and the arts

Sonnet

Plumly, Stanley

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Whatever it is, however it comes, it takes time.

It can take all night.

My father would sit on the edge of the bed

and let the tears fall to the floor

the sun the size of the window, full

and rising. He was a dead man and he knew it.

I think of him every time I fall in love

how the heart is three-quarters high in the body.

—He could lift his own weight above his head.

—He could run a furrow straight by hand.

I think of him large in his dark house

hard in thought, taking his time.

But in fact he is sitting on the edge of the bed

and it is morning, my mother's arms around him.

© 2006 Association of American Medical Colleges