A Click Of the Door, Part 2

The bedrooms contain two twin beds

with starched white sheets and plastic pillows.

I drool at night, in circles on the pillowcase,

a side effect of the medication. I almost drown

in my own spit. The plexiglass window  

allows sunshine to brighten the room.

I’m not warmed by it.

The ward runs cold, maybe to keep us

awake and moving.

The dayroom is sterile and smells of Febreze.

There are couches filled with Styrofoam,

a whiteboard and round tables. The TV is paused

on Forrest Gump running, his beard ragged.

The room is well-lit, no dark corners

in which to hide. I don’t eat in the dayroom.

My fellow patients don’t interest me—

conversation is for the outside world.

I write poems on the white board

in red marker. They are freedom,

a source of heat, of righteousness. My fellow patients

scowl at my words because they don’t understand.

I write “we,” the patients and I,

“are stuck in mud. We don’t glow

with sun, our legs are fucked—

we can’t run.” In a couple of days,

staff will erase my words,

encouraging me to write again—

“Today we ran! We said be well.”

A few of us pace the floor

up and down. Then tired, I stand

as still as a poodle on watch.

When will I fall into myself?

Normality is suspended.

I do not shower for fear

of being undressed. My sleep

is interrupted; I spend time

in the early morning hours

sitting against the wall in the hall,

legs drawn to chest.

I can’t use the phone for fear

it will send radioactive beams

to my head. I rarely smile,

though I used to often.

Eventually, the door will click open. I will walk through it,

a woman on the verge of everything possible.