They brought you to me writhing,
A frantic, incredulous prisoner of bloody darkness.
Two orbs of blue flint,
bulging in the rage of violation that no one could remedy.
My arm, sunglasses, a cane-you despised them all,
groping for your dignity in the crumpled blue suit
pulled so clumsily over your nakedness,
concealing shame in harassed hair you forbid me to comb.
I kept a vigil over your curses,
your tears wept in the false solitude of darkness,
refused to wince or protest under the desperate clutch of your hand
terrified of pity, terrified of being useless;
until you finally captured the light,
handcuffed it firmly in your narrowed eyes,
focused blankly on my face,
and continued to search
for the lovely Florence Nightingale you knew I had to be.
