A compelling aspect of both medicine and poetry is how each incites us to articulate our perceptions through specific applications of expressive language. In medicine, words are firmly grounded upon what we directly observe; assumptions are discouraged, for concern that unconscious biases might lead to erroneous conclusions. In poetry, on the other hand, what we see is often just a touchstone for what we can infer, our imaginations unbounded by an idiom that senses as much as it describes. These two modes of comprehending are instructively contrasted in “The Morning After the Election.” We are at first dropped into a narrative about a father and a daughter, reckoning momentarily that the daughter “who had once been his son” and now living far away has been rejected by her family—until the poetically appreciated detail of “the mustache obscuring his lip quivered” as he describes her new imperilment leads us to a deeper inference instead that he must accept and love her. Additional surprising implications that further test objectivity follow, from the reference to another “perfect” son whose death during childbirth ended the patient’s marriage, which underscores how the speaker may have wrongly construed that the transgender child caused familial strife, to the oversimplified and also partly true (yet in retrospect not entirely so, and thus all the more poignant) reason for the patient’s clinic visit as solely “because his blood pressure is high.” Poetry, by transcending the ostensible and harkening to the intuited, allows us to more fully grasp the complexities of our patients’ experiences.
