Clermont Indian Hospital
A beautiful brown girl with paint on her face
from huffing is in with kidney failure—again.
Gold gives a greater rush, the brilliant black
internist tells us. More toluene. More damage.
The doctor is paying back her medical education
by working here, assigns us articles on addiction.
No one from home visits the girl. We stand
in the ward, discuss acid-base balance, take notes.
I don’t remember her name, but I can’t forget
her eyes—beer-bottle brown, large, empty pupils.
She stares past me and the other students, knows
we have nothing new to offer. She doesn’t speak, nods
permission to listen over her heart, her lungs.
Later the internist says the girl was Homecoming
Queen, a bright student—until this.
This doctor told me there was no place for her
to practice in her home state. I had no idea,
raised in a monochrome community, how she
could be left out. Except in the usual ways—
picked last for the team, no date for prom.
The brown girl in the bed stares vacantly
at the wall. She’s been left out of lots of things.
There’s no sparkle now. Except for the glint
of paint near her nose.
Published in Tipton Poetry Journal Issue #59, Winter 2024
Lynette Lamp 