Psych Ward Poetry
Joan Noëldechen
Columbia I know what it is to be In a room without locks On the door and a nine-thirty curfew. All I could do is curl up in my bed And listen to the sounds of police sirens coming from the street, five floors below. The hospital has sounds at night. The nurses and attendents catch a breath between tasks. There is always movement and lights in the hallways. I must keep my cool sanity in a psych ward. I must give the correct responses to others. When I am alone at night, I am with God in reality. I am strangely calm until I pass the entrance. I am kept like an animal on display. Miracles await after a rain. The colors run from the clouds. My covenant is in the sky. I hang on to hope after the bow fades and the sun appears.
The Hall I roam the hall in blue scrubs with other patients in the ward as I wait for clothes to wash… a never-ending cycle of circular motions without fabric softener or dryer sheets to soften my load as I wait and pace across the floor.
Psych Ward Restless spirit still alive waiting for your stolen kisses to drive me mad, I wait behind the walls of Jericho. Your jacket I have laid across my chair. In your pocket Joan of Arc resides away from Joan the poet who sent her saint with thee.
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