Wildly Awake and Still
Wildly Awake and Still
On a ride in the car on a long afternoon,
she sees disappointment’s etched face
on her grandfather in the rear-view mirror.
He informs her, his voice loud and tight,
she will never be an FBI agent.
Who knew she wanted to do as he did?
He could have groomed her, coached her.
The backseat feels like a small house
with no windows and a locked door.
The overdose of pills, intentional—
a bottle of Ativan chased by a bottle
of Tylenol.
Her roommate found her cramped
in a corner, the corner a deep fist.
The smell of urine. She pissed on herself.
No light. The soft light of ICU. Now,
the stiff light of day. This day, her first
ride to a psych hospital. The car missed
the rabbit in the road by inches.
Her mind moves to the thought of her desk.
Pictures living in crayons. The changed
face of the bank teller. The metal arm
of the grocery store clerk. The dog turned
demon with one black horn. Cigarettes of
stained fire, smoke hurling from ash
reminding her of the dive bar she frequented
in combat boots and a leather jacket.
She imagines the park bench blazes. The dead
men’s stubs wave—the tick of life is here.
Wave away the birds from a man’s top hat.
They scatter like dirty snowflakes
in strong breezes.
At the park, a woman is wearing polka dots
the color of her grandmother’s last house coat,
the color of custard with circles of red,
death lingering in the folds,
fabric the smell of pepper.
Another flock of birds gather. The woman’s arms
raise—a wave of crepe as sleeves billow stars.
Holy shit! She thinks, I almost missed light
reflecting off my wrists on a bright day.
The bouquet of birds at her feet, the thought
of God in the a.m. and a thin friend thrown
her way comforts her.
Grandmother announces we’re here
as if they might be someplace else.
Yet, she loves her grandmother
for stating the obvious—
it grounds her for a brief moment
leaving her with her feet.
Her mind settles back into the car.
Her grandfather parks at the entrance
of the concrete building, the door
an unwelcoming piece of glass,
cracked down the middle. One thinks
it would shatter when tugged,
threatening to cut through shoes.
Rain in rivulets blemish the windshield.
She is floating in space, in orbit
with nothing more than endless falling.
She would spend ten months, holidays
and birthday, locked away, a doll in slacks
gathering dust as she tucks herself into
the end of a long couch
in the dayroom of the hospital.
She won’t cry, tears wetting the collar
of her shirt. She silently mouths the words
I fucked up. Death, so close. It slipped
From her like an untied shoelace in the hands
of a child. Next time, she will lie drugged
in a lake. Her body sinking, a rock
done skipping across water.