Instructors All

or

On Standing at a Cadaver Tank on Exam Day

You might have thought your days of  teaching were over.

    the hands with which you guided your children were empty of lessons.

    the heart with which you loved was clean of instructions.

    the arms with which you hugged were devoid of reassurance.

Not yet, not yet.

You might have thought your voice was  silent, your secrets safe.

    the legs that carried your crying infants at night had no more strength.

    the spine that held you upright all the working years had no more tasks.

    the brain that solved so many problems had no more answers.

Not yet, not yet.

Cadaver tanks in gross anatomy labs are  cold places, even in summer.

    ignited only by the minds that use them,

    heated only by the passion of learning,

    warmed only by the painstaking accumulation of details.

Not finished yet, not yet.

Perhaps someday I will teach as you do now.

    broken bones, now healed, could instruct new students.

    surgical scars, now thinner, could help others learn.

    tumors, maybe gone, maybe back, could spread knowledge as they once  spread fear.

But not yet, please, not yet.

Sandra L. Shea, Ph.D.

Curriculum Affairs

First Place, Poetry