~REBECCA DUNHAM~
TOAST OF
THE TERRARIUM
Those days on the
locked ward &
under thick glass,
shipped to the upstate
hospital
at 17, taught me nothing
I didn't already
know. One,
it is the small things
you've got to watch out
for, the
tricky way lemon peels & a knife
can cross in the kitchen
sink.
Or two, that there will always be
some dark girl, Zoloft
tablets palmed
& melting in her fist,
the glow-in-the-dark moons
along
the edges of your room.
Casts run up her forearms,
not that
she'll tell you how it happened,
not that she'll admit
to anything.
Doctor So-&-So
would disapprove of such
talk.
He likes to think I've recovered,
that it was no big deal,
that I
actually enjoyed
the stretching regimen,
drawn taut
& thin as canvas
on gallery walls. My
parents saw
nothing wrong with it,
just smoothed the fur on
my arms
& slid me back inside.
© by Rebecca Dunham
