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.

 

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Desire

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Closing the Door on Depression