“They have locked the ward,” said Tristana, “I am prisoner to the nurse’s whim. I see the large key hanging from her belt, it rattles against the other keys as she walks. I feel ghosts touch my arm as I pass; their voices echo in my ears, their fingers feel my flesh. The nurse called Bryony bellows at us all; her voice hammers in our ears. The windows show the fields beyond, the trees wave in the wind, the birds fly so high. Isolde holds my hand, she follows me wherever I go; her eyes are alight with her father’s ghost; his spanking hand raised in her memory’s eye. I let her come to my bed at night, let her cuddle close when the lights are out, let her kiss when the others sleep. The mad here are ****** by their minds; the sunlight makes them ***** up their eyes; their voices are pitched to the highest degree. The nurses come with their strutting pace; their hands haul us to our place in the dining hall; the food rammed down throats like pigs at troughs; the sounds of the mad echo the walls. Isolde and I walk in the grounds; the elm grove our daily trot; the birds our only companions. She speaks of her father’s hitting hand and his ******* times with her flesh at nights; she stares at the sky like a lost sheep. We embrace beyond the window’s sight; we kiss where none can see; the sunlight blesses us, the wind holds us with kind parent’s touch; we whisper words to the passing birds. The high walls surround us; the far off bell reminds us of home; the sound of keys locking reminds us of Hell. The nurses come for the baths are ready; the patients scream for the water’s hot, the flesh turns red at the water’s touch. The nurse called Bridget takes my hand, she leads me to the washing room, her hands rub me clean as my mother’s did; her eyes are blue as the distant sky; her voice melodic as a bird in spring. The chaplain comes with his bible and prayer; his eyes are black as the doomed and the ******; his voice bellows like the thunder of storms. He leads us in prayer like the blind leading blind; the Bible is read but the message is lost; the patients hum like the soon to be dead. I want my mother’s hold, my sister’s kiss; I want to hear the laughter of my father’s voice, his embrace against the storms that shake my mind. Isolde comes; her hand in mine holds me fast; her lips are ever on my cheek, kissing me in her daily love, her voice tripping over words like a lame child’s run. We sit and watch the clouds pass by; we name each one with our special names, we see shapes in the formation as they pass. She cries in her sleep if her father comes, his ghostly shape and his spanking hand, her flesh shakes as he passes by. The doors of the ward are locked; the asylum holds us in a strong man’s grip; the nights go out as we twist and turn; Isolde creeps to my bed like a frighten child; we embrace in the darkness against the cold and ghosts; the keys rattle in our sleep; Isolde’s lips are pressed to my breast; the angels may come one night and grant us rest.”
AN OLD PROSE POEM OF MINE WRITTEN IN 2009.
