by ELIZABETH ROSE bruce
I am, I am, I am
They strap me in and the traveling
tabernacle doors slam shut.
Belong to a church? the service starts.
The ambulance shifts into gear.
A quick ride up E. 3rd, to that plaster-white
ward they took me to before.
You pray? Sans serif construction paper
posters shout Jesus Saves,
John 3.16. And then, Were you baptized?
The pulse leaks out of my left arm,
but they continue; Always remember
that God loves you,
then the other—He loves you even when
you’ve got nobody else.
I suppose I could pray—
for those French-Canadian boys
at the bar the night before, who had no idea
I would do this, who will never know,
for my mother, for the nurse
who held her after they took me back,
insisting, she didn’t mean to, I’m sure,
for every congregant who came before,
disciple or not, headed to
inpatient or some other ending—
I bow my head, say thank you, to the
part-time preacher EMTs, still oblivious
to the dripping, the splitting stitches.
They think they are saving my life.
They think they are saving my soul.
I can’t deny them their tender intrusion.
Taping the Corners of the Doorframe
to Keep the Cats from Scratching
It’s as if I’m back
in that hospital,
no sharp edges, metal
bedframe, or bathroom
door to break myself on.
The first person to dive
headfirst into a corner
to cleave their crown
in half, was probably
a woman like me.
Not just because
they locked us up
like this for centuries,
but because even now,
medicated, no thoughts
of hurting myself or others,
I still want to split
in two, dig my nails
into splintered wood,
and call it instinct.