On Being a County Coroner
To do an autopsy on a baby you must have miniature hands, smaller than those of a horse jockey, smaller than persimmons, dainty enough to extract a tiny kidney or a teeny liver; bendable and capable of never having jitters. To slice children for a living takes courage, detachment, and massive levels of potassium. An ear is a glass cashew, a nose is a crystal pistachio. Eyes are little tapioca bubbles. Such a doctor is not a doctor, but an archaeologist who never confuses food with anatomy. A heart is not a juice box. A brain is not a tomato.
On Being a Hypochondriac
Do not belong to the cup in front of you. It is a trick. The spout is a galaxy of diseased forefathers who will misunderstand you. Check low radio frequencies for hidden messages: dot-dot-dash; dot-dot; dash-dash-dash. Chlorofluorocarbons. Endometriosis. Attack of the special robotic artillery. Your sleeve catches acute viral nasopharyngitis and blows its nose on your wrist, which you repeatedly wipe on the underbelly of Ohio. Come back around eight and don't bring any more infections. Be a doll and fetch the end. Bring it here so I can taste it. Let the oxygen out. Take the pill. Bait the snake and open all the chicken cages. Take deep breaths. Blood is not the color it pretends. In the end, the page is a garden you have yet to plant. These are your pajamas. There is the sink. Your doctor is just a phone call away.