Florence seeks ways to get more clean water, healthy food,
blankets, a little peace and order. She measures
the inches between beds to document crowding,
takes notes on how many enter the hospital
and how many leave alive.
She’s too busy to compare records from before
she came and now, but looks forward to doing the math
when she’s not cracking open windows,
ordering two hundred scrub brushes, cleaning
for patients’ comfort and to stop the spread of disease.
When she asks doctors to wash their hands
and surgical knives between treating patients,
they say, Don’t tell us how to do our job, Miss Nightingale.
They refuse to unlock the closet where medicine is stored.
Florence doesn’t have time to wait for them
to dole out what can heal. Patients need help now.
She finds a basket and hammer. She folds her hand
around the hammer’s smooth handle and aims it at the lock.
The metal cracks. The cabinet door splinters.
She scoops up tinctures, salts, tins of pills,
extracts, and fills the wicker basket.
She carefully measures and records the doses
given to patients grateful for the gentle touch
of her uncurled fist. After dark,
she quietly carries an oil lamp, checking bandages
and fevers, listening to soldiers who can’t sleep.
Some reach out to touch the shadow she leaves behind.