Poem: Dying

Dying

Her hair was cut short in the style of a Japanese pop star,
a prevenient wild, calculated to pull one’s attention
from the brewing storm, the nurses securing a line,
the frantic whispers, the wallflower medical student.
Assigned the name Giraffe as she rolled into the ER,
I wondered about her real identity, what TV shows
this eight year old liked, who her friends were,
whether she would want to be called Giraffe.
An anime face, her pupils were wide and doll-like,
comforting to those who knew the least,
holding her hand, whispering release,
rolling orange polka-dot socks onto her feet.