When a new patient joined the group
seasoned
members introduced her
to the rules that had been set in place to keep
us
moving toward our star of sanity,
far in the east.
What happens in group stays in group—unless
a person
speaks of harming
himself, or someone
else.
We do not interrupt when someone is
sharing.
One fire burns at a time.
Do not judge: we’re all broken
here.
Some cracked, some cut open,
scooped
out;
some of us twitch
or sleep or slam
the
doors of our first homes.
If you need to leave the room—
because, perhaps, the
smell of baby shampoo
is making you dizzy, or possibly your
bones
are simply pressing too hard
against your skin—
you may
stand in the hall, in sight
of the counselors. You will need to explain
what
change has moved you
further into your skull.
During morning session we report our numbers:
On a scale
of one to ten
we’re asked to rate our murderous urges
and the
volume of our noise.
How badly do you long for release?
Are you able to swallow what you need? How long have you been
asleep?
Rule number one aside,
a woman sat next to
me one day,
scars on her face, a cast on her foot;
she has been ruined completely by her
father. Now she hides
in her room from the spirits; the spirits who
spit
accusations at her while she hums, lips
together, eyes closed. And if she
forgets
the magic litany they’ve sung to her,
they will press their
skeletal fingers
between her legs.
The lady across from me wears smart pantsuits.
She spends part of each year in this city hospital.
She has been stunted
for
fifty years, her light lost
under the shadow of a giant
grandfather.
When her tub is full, she steps into the
water,
bleeds gleefully there until morning.
A pretty girl in a bandana
refers to herself
only in the third person.
She is so fucking
mad.
She could kick down this building, wall by
wall,
storming through the tile halls,
punching out the grey stone facade.
I sit with them all. We sit together,
lining the
perimeter
of a room that once was a
nursery.
We wait here for word of our discharge.
