Overlap

Poetry

The first time I heard a heartbeat
through the bell of a stethoscope,
it sounded like a bird trapped in a ribcage—
fragile, frantic, sure.
I held my breath,
afraid to disturb the secret
thudding beneath my hand.
I thought if I listened closely enough,
I might never lose someone.

Now, everything merges.
The charts read the same.
Breath sounds, belly soft—
I nod, I write, I move.
But the heart?
I barely register it.
Like music behind a closed door
I used to lean against.

I used to feel the ache of being alive
while witnessing it in someone else—
two hearts, overlapping rhythms.
How strange and sacred
that we all carry this drum,
beating without asking.

What dulled me?
Was it the hours,
the unrelenting shuffle from room to room?
Or did I trade something—
awe for endurance,
reverence for rhythm,
wonder for getting through?

Still—sometimes—
in the hush between vitals,
when the hallway exhales
and I remember I have lungs too—
I hear it again.
A patient’s pulse.
My own.
That soft knock against forgetting.

Author: Sarah Hughes

Bio: Sarah Hughes is a medical student at the University of Michigan.

Commentary: This poem reflects on the emotional movement that happens over time in clinical training: from presence to detachment, from awe to routine. It’s about how the body keeps going even when the mind feels dulled, and how, in rare moments, something breaks through—a pulse, a breath—and stirs something that used to feel alive. The piece explores movement not just in the physical sense, but as a shift in perception, attention, and feeling.

Overlap

The first time I heard a heartbeat through the bell of a stethoscope, it sounded like a bird trapped in a ribcage— fragile, frantic, sure. I held my breath, afraid to disturb the secret thudding beneath my hand. I thought if I listened closely enough, I might never lose someone.

Now, everything merges. The charts read the same. Breath sounds, belly soft— I nod, I write, I move. But the heart? I barely register it. Like music behind a closed door I used to lean against.

I used to feel the ache of being alive while witnessing it in someone else— two hearts, overlapping rhythms. How strange and sacred that we all carry this drum, beating without asking.

What dulled me? Was it the hours, the unrelenting shuffle from room to room? Or did I trade something— awe for endurance, reverence for rhythm, wonder for getting through?

Still—sometimes— in the hush between vitals, when the hallway exhales and I remember I have lungs too— I hear it again. A patient’s pulse. My own. That soft knock against forgetting.