Isolde stands at the window
of her old room. Her mother
and sister sit around the small

white table, talking to Tristana.
Cobwebs hang from the metal
curtain rail, a dead spider hangs

like a dead parachutist, a dried
up fly on the white painted
windowsill. The first few days

out of the asylum seem odd,
seem to unbalance her. Tristana
seems engaging well with her

icy mother, her sister looks on
anxiously. My room, she had
told Tristana. My bed, she had

added pointing to the bed
pushed against a wall. In the
asylum, some weeks back,

she and Tristana had ******.
The fat nurse had caught them
and reported. There had been

giggles and guffaws in the staff
room afterwards. Now she and
Tristana were free, government

clearout, new policy, economical
necessities. She stares at her
mother’s head move from side

to side, her jaw opening and
closing like the shark she was.
Just a quick visitation, she said.

Her mother’s eyes and mouth
opened with shock when they
turned up. Not staying, she had

informed. Visiting the once, she
had said. Her mother seemed
relieved, her sister white as a

sheet, nodded her head like
some cheap doll. The room
was cold, colder than before.

She’d been taken from here
those years back, screaming,
held between men in white,

out into the cold night. Be gone
soon, she mutters, rubbing a
finger down the pane of glass,

making a rude noise, all heads
turn toward her room from
the garden below. Goodbye
old room, time for us to go.