Nut House

First time we saw her after

they dragged her trussed into the night 

of the screaming incident -

the bread knife, and all that crying,



Dad thought she looked rather better -

fatter and a little less transparent. 

Still nuts, I didn't add, but thought -

more there, somehow, and also not,

in the grayness of aging sadly.



For the last half hour, which was 

only the second half hour, we sat 

staring into an ocean of wishes competing 

to be elsewhere - I'd missed Scouts -

didn't care -



guess so many shared a desire 

to be out of there, but then a light flicked 

a bit of the dull from her sedated gaze 

and she spoke -

'Someone jumped in the night! 



It was a starling announcement,

but explained the windows being shut -

locked, in fact - too late,

and everyone complained about sweat. 

The odour of armpits pervaded,

and I remember I declined 

a cup of tea that day. The only day I went.



She wept when we kissed her goodbye. 

I didn't want to touch her 

but couldn't face the drama if I denied her.

Dad said, 'Right!' And patted her head

like she was a dog, and we walked 

the long corridor; looked back just once; 

she wasn't there. 



She came home at the end of the month

but it wasn't her. She had a look about her

I can only describe as permanently shocked.



And not long after that, she jumped.