image from Zhang-Zongjing.com
“Medicine is a science of uncertainty and an art
of probability.”--Willam Osler
Several decades ago,
when my medical problems
began to manifest themselves,
it took a couple of years
to partially diagnose me.
Doggedly I searched for cures & answers.
I went to a rag-tag group of healers,
but theology in several languages
are soul journeys, and I never found
the key to healing.
At one point, I decided to investigate
Eastern Medicine. Through a friend I found
a Chinese doctor working out of his kitchen
on Beacon Hill. He spoke very little English.
He sniffed me a lot, took a long look at my
tongue, skin, and eyes--telling me that I had
He wrote me a script in Chinese,
and sent me to an address in Chinatown.
It was a shadowy, dimly lit rambling
panorama of tall shelves, with little library
ladders in several places. On the shelves
were huge glass jars of herbs, roots, & bones.
I was given “special tea” and a bottle of little
black pills. I never knew what they were; the
label was in Chinese. I thought to myself,
“Probably repackaged Carter’s Little Liver Pills”.
The tea seemed to be leaves, grass, and twigs.
It smelled like a dead skunk on a gut wagon. It
made me throw up twice, and gave me a healthy
case of the trots--but I found no solace,
no answers, &
Peacock called across
the pond, but only the koi
heard the sad shrill song.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub