An Ode to the Scalpel

To those who find themselves

under the knife,

The scalpel is everything,

A poignant symbol of

What is to come

And what will never be.

But to those who have

The knowledge

And the power

To wield the blade,

The scalpel simply exists.

Day by day,

Hour by hour,

From surgery to surgery,

It remains,

Constantly stoic

And stoically constant.

*

The handle is

Lifeless and empty,

Its mouth constantly agape,

Groveling to be filled

With purpose.

The blades stand ready to oblige,

But which one is right for the job?

Every size, shape, and style

Await their master’s command.

With each new procedure

The scalpel is reborn.

*

Has there ever been a greater

Instrument of Paradox?

The weightless steel of the blade

Defies the heft of the handle,

Which leaves its mark on

Latex-covered palms.

The scalpel exists

For destruction,

And nothing more.

Medieval metal forged into

The sharpest of points

Glides through fibrous tissue

With ease and grace

And beauty,

Propelled and steered

By handle and practiced hand.

Flesh is separated from flesh,

Vessels lacerated,

Blood released from the walls

That once held it captive.

And yet with each slice,

With each damaged membrane

And exposed organ,

Nothing less than life itself

Is given a second chance.

Each incision reveals

A new fate lying dormant,

Waiting for the moment when

Injury succumbs to creation

And illness yields to health.

This is the gift

The scalpel blade

Has blessed us with:

To cut is now to create.

To destroy is now to save.