The Warrior (An Excerpt) Poem by Paloma Castaneda

The pale girl gripped the nurse's hand
for a brief moment, clutching at the
soft skin. It was an impulsive move,
and normally the girl would berate herself for
not being herself - he fiercely, independent
self. The monitor sped up as her gaze raked over
the medicine lying on the cold, silver tray.
The girl's mother should be there to comfort
her, to hold her, at least to sit by her as the ago-
nizing medicine runs through her veins and the
convulsions rock her thin body. But she was not
there - she was anywhere but there, so the girl
gripped the nurse's hand instead, caught, for a
moment, in terror.
The girl stared into her eyes. There in the
gentle green pooled sympathy, of course, but
detachment, too. Who could blame the nurse?
God knows how many pale girls she had seen
come and go, all with the same hopes, the same
fears, the same fate.
She let go.
The nurse, clothed in sterile, white clothes,
set the tray down on the medical table. The in-
struments rattled. It sent a cold chill down the
girl's back, which in turn made her wince.
Today was big. This day had been on the
girl's mind for a while - it was sort of infamous
around there; something that everyone had to
go through sometime or another.
The girl braced herself.