Poetry: Childhood

Children’s Ward

Before I learned to speak,

I learned to be afraid

of white men in white coats

and rows of beds

against walls the color of green death.

I learned to be quiet and small,

not to draw attention,

like a soldier

hiding on the front lines

from a battalion of giants.

My guardians by day

stood silent,

unable to stop the onslaught

of needles, ether, scalpels, blood,

and plaster-of-Paris.

My protectors

were gone by nightfall;

they, too, obeyed the starched army of nurses

proclaiming an end to visiting hours.

Alone, I kept my frightened vigil,

fighting sleep, pain, and night terrors,

only to succumb to narcosis,

then awaken unrefreshed

to the new day’s trials

with child-sized courage.

I prayed wordlessly

for the salvation of invisibility

in the children’s ward.