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Articles by Elane Kim
Transcription: Phone Call, 2018: A Mother’s Love in Illness
Listen to Journal of Clinical Oncology's Art of Oncology poem, "Transcription: Phone Call, 2018” by Elane Kim, a student at Harvard College. The poem is followed by an interview with Kim and host Dr. Mikkael Sekeres. Kim shares her poem that lingers in the spaces between words; a mother and daughter navigating illness and memory. Can you come to translate these words? Something in the lung. Yes, I am eating well. Birds, green ones, are nesting outside the window.
Sonnet at the Supermarket
His eyes wash over families of fruit, crushed cardboard, sticky hands. The trick is to be molecular: a watermelon sick with jaundice is no good, mushy inside. Carries disease internal to itself. Like how cells hold instructions for their own death or how birds always know the way home. His eyes washed with chemical droplets and still unseeing. Like light flushed down the sink. Shade of white so brutal it could kill you. Choose the roundest, brightest fruit, says Appa.
December
REFLECTION ARTICLE December First published: 06 September 2024 No abstract is available for this article.
Amputation Triggers Long-Range Epidermal Permeability Changes in Evolutionarily Distant Regenerative Organisms
Abstract Previous studies have reported that amputation invokes body-wide responses in regenerative organisms, but most have not examined the implications of these changes beyond the region of tissue regrowth. Specifically, long-range epidermal responses to amputation are largely uncharacterized, with research on amputation-induced epidermal responses in regenerative organisms traditionally being restricted to the wound site.
Visitation
During the last visit, we drank coffee and ate laughter. You didn’t recognize my face, which was your face. I watched you sink into the fur of your chair. That night, I held you in my arms, realized your smallness. You didn’t recognize my face, but still asked if I had eaten, eyes like caskets. That night, I imagined, for a moment, something like plaques melting, tangles unfurling into softness. Something like my face, your face, bright and soft and so startlingly alive.
I Am Waiting To Be Built
I Am Waiting To Be Built Electric Lit is 12 years old! Help support the next dozen years by helping us raise $12,000 for 12 years, and get exclusive merch! Missense Once, I followed the snow, watched as it blinked. In this language, to ask is to bury. In this language, eyes are less than mirrors. What is lost in translation: a bird is a beginning that sings; a horse is an untamed tongue. Pears are as good as boats are as good as stomachs in the bearing of rot. How they can only sink.
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