Friday, July 15, 2011

Sanitarium

This spot of verse today is brought to you by the talented Laura of Literary Legs.  Visit her site for excellent articles of literary insight along with selections of her poetry and prose.  Enjoy!

I think I’m almost healthy now.
I broke into the new year of 2007 as a terminal patient,
Through the clean-hedged doors of January,
The reception area of a quiet hospice home.

I did what the other patients did. I sat up,
Rocked and murmured at the blank walls of my reason,
Screamed and cried and died a little with each
Surreal attempt to define all things in essentials.

Mother--

I think I’m almost healthy now.
I had almost internalized your verbosity
Of stringent epithets. Your shabby reproofs.
I learnt your brocards well-- too well.

Now I walk the halls of 2009,
I rock and smile. I giggle at the wallpapered
Walls of this, my Summer. My sanitarium.
I’ve learned to draw and play a chord or two on the dulcet.

Ma--

I’m sure I’m healthy now.
I see the glossy calendar pictures, not the black
And white cells. I live in the scenes, not the digits.
I live in the world, not a Styrofoam model City of God.

Nothing is essential in this century.
Motifs of error and an onerous dowry is what we inherit
And pass on. The only pristine logic left to us
Is the beautiful absurdity of compassion.