She danced into the triage room greeting me with "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." I asked about her eyes -- blue black swollen around her sparkling soul. She answered, "I fell at the playground." I asked about the cord marks on her back and on her thighs. She answered, "The playground." Finally, with downcast eyes she admitted, "I got a whupping because I was bad."

I exchanged looks with the DSS worker who had brought her -- both of us wondering what brute would punch a four year old in the face and beat her with a thin strap, then teach her to lie of it.

The DSS worker brought her to the Emergency Room because she had vomited a little blood. Her mother reported that it was just the beets she'd had for supper. I agreed. It probably was the beats - a steady diet of such would turn my vomit red and my soul to dark.

Oh you black-eyed sunbeam of pain. I would like to take you home. Instead, I put bandaids on your surface abrasions and wish for you the moon knowing that black-eyes heal, but whuppings run a lifetime deep.

Maridee Spearman