Thirty-eight is skilled at healing hands,
Hard at work each day on wrists and fingers.
In her hands are hands, so what she feels
Requires the same tissues that she heals,
The tiny tangles over which she lingers.
Yet her own must leap to her commands.
Ever deaf to her own hands' appeals,
Intent on what each patient probe reveals,
Guiding blades, she puts her wrists through wringers,
Harsh in her devotion and demands,
The toll intense, as she well understands.