The Words
Why do you have
so much stuff
they ask me
as I work to get
admitted to the
mental ward the
night of my 39th
birthday.
I'm a professional I
think, it's hard to
get them to keep
you, but they're
not interested in
my reasons for
interment,
they want to know
why I have 20 books
and more magazines
that I can carry
and other questions
that I forget to
answer before they
come to the next
question.
I couldn't remember
how to pack
and words were more urgent.
They leave me cold
on a gurney and
tell me nicely "Now
don't you wander
from here" and I
pile the books
around me while
I wait for someone
to bring me sleep
and stop the words.
“Hey Nutcase”
says Julie on the phone
friend magnetized the first day of
pre-school, neither of us two years old yet
now both 39
I've answered the payphone in the mental ward
we're veterans of rehab and psych wards
Julie's in her apt. where the next door mariachi
music is too loud
She can make me laugh so loud
The wardens run over to shush
me
We compare psych med side effects
we hate,
the relative merits of institutional food
who makes a better temporary best friend
the depressed borderline who sleeps 18 hours
a day
or the girl in the dissociative fugue
who's perfectly normal 30 % of the day but
sings to
herself in Spanish the rest of the time.
Twice a week at Miss Anita's house
for yoga class and carrot juice when we were
4. 4 times
a month at the psychiatrist now,
talk & medication checks,
doing the 21st century asana -
we could give a class