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The Art of Swallowing

The Art of Swallowing The biopsy is choreographed to oldies hits on the radio. A small curtain crosses your chest but the flesh tug, the efficient sounds of metal, keep you focused. You scan the masked face for signs. Choose a button, a seashell, a tooth, a stone. Hop on one foot as the half moon rises, lean over slowly. Slowly. Slowly. If you keep your balance, you may go on. A stunning lack of sensation, rachety sounds as x-rays penetrate. No feeling as the needle plunges. The doctor makes a skilled incision, looks at his watch. He's late for his daughter's recital. Choose a key, a penny, a needle, a walnut. Choosing a feather will bring you grace. Remember the secret you learned as a child: inside the apple you find the star. You think—walk to the car. You think—put the key in the lock. Your heart thinks of the feather. You feel the sun on your face. Your tongue is furred and heavy. On the horizon there's a pale white moon. You hesitate and swallow. http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png JAMA American Medical Association

The Art of Swallowing

JAMA , Volume 280 (7) – Aug 19, 1998

The Art of Swallowing

Abstract

The biopsy is choreographed to oldies hits on the radio. A small curtain crosses your chest but the flesh tug, the efficient sounds of metal, keep you focused. You scan the masked face for signs. Choose a button, a seashell, a tooth, a stone. Hop on one foot as the half moon rises, lean over slowly. Slowly. Slowly. If you keep your balance, you may go on. A stunning lack of sensation, rachety sounds as x-rays penetrate. No feeling as the needle plunges. The doctor makes a skilled incision,...
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Publisher
American Medical Association
Copyright
Copyright © 1998 American Medical Association. All Rights Reserved.
ISSN
0098-7484
eISSN
1538-3598
DOI
10.1001/jama.280.7.598
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

The biopsy is choreographed to oldies hits on the radio. A small curtain crosses your chest but the flesh tug, the efficient sounds of metal, keep you focused. You scan the masked face for signs. Choose a button, a seashell, a tooth, a stone. Hop on one foot as the half moon rises, lean over slowly. Slowly. Slowly. If you keep your balance, you may go on. A stunning lack of sensation, rachety sounds as x-rays penetrate. No feeling as the needle plunges. The doctor makes a skilled incision, looks at his watch. He's late for his daughter's recital. Choose a key, a penny, a needle, a walnut. Choosing a feather will bring you grace. Remember the secret you learned as a child: inside the apple you find the star. You think—walk to the car. You think—put the key in the lock. Your heart thinks of the feather. You feel the sun on your face. Your tongue is furred and heavy. On the horizon there's a pale white moon. You hesitate and swallow.

Journal

JAMAAmerican Medical Association

Published: Aug 19, 1998

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