They call her “sweetie,” “miss,” and “dear.”
They mean well. She just rolls her eyes
and half smiles, wryly, as she tries
to find some bits of humor here

amidst indignity and pain.
At ease, she claims satirically
she’s here for anthropology—
to study this bizarre terrain

and its inhabitants, and how
this system functions to create
a temporary social state—
the pain returns, she stops for now.

Sometimes, a doctor will appear
from just behind the curtain wall,
and smile-talk. She can’t hear it all,
so I repeat things till she’s clear.

And when they enter with the tray,
and peel the gown they dressed her in,
attending to her weeping skin,
I’ll be the one who looks away.