The last time I was in a psych ward
White everywhere: gowns, desks, floors, people.
Everyone huddled in small groups together,
our own little parties. When was the last time…?
Is it different from…? Does the doctor say…?
Dad’s hair dark against his pale gown.
His roommate nearby, staring at his hands,
his mother at his ear, whispering.
Rustling behind me, excitement at reception.
A flurry of nurses clacked by.
What was that smell?
I didn’t answer the questions the therapist asked.
I didn’t speak the whole hour, my skin
too tight against my skull.
Dad sketched in the air with his hands
the secret map he’d discovered hiding
between the headlines in last week’s newspapers.
I didn’t realize the meeting was over
until the therapist stood up and said goodbye.
On my way out I picked a chocolate from the candy dish
and choked. The nurses stood clucking
over Cara oranges, a box of them found
behind a cabinet in the massive front desk
sickly-sweet, rotting, turning white.
