POLIO: A poem

POLIO

On the hospital bed I sit,

my four-year old hands folded

on my lap.  I wait.  We all wait

alone in our pain: four, five,

eight year olds. My gaze glued

to the door of the vast children’s

ward – tall beige walls, dark grey

tiled floors, windows fogged with

years of dust and grime, and sorrow. 

On the white sheets I sit,

in the Hospital de Niños, frail

and dark.  I wait for my mother,

for my father.  We all wait. 

A nun washes my face, combs

my hair.  Makes me pray.  No

breakfast for you today  she says

and moves on to the black-haired

girl next to me, still asleep.

But, before mom and dad arrive,

two burly orderlies wheel me

down the hallway.  Where are

we going?  I ask in my small, brave voice.

…………..

In the O.R. the nurse

covers my face with a mask.

What is this?  I ask again.

I don’t hear the answer.