Psych Ward Visitation Hour

For 7 days and 7 nights, I’ve been shooting free throws

           The doctor said I needed focus

There is no net because some guy tried hanging himself from it

           But the moonlight betrayed him

In the courtyard where we sit, a dandelion grows

           I see you’re uncomfortable. Ignore these

blood-brick walls, cemented ground, nurse station window

          There’s forgiveness here. And I need to apologize

You’re seeing me in these weed-green scrubs, bone-cloth robe

           I unscrewed the roof from our home

                       swallowed all the memories

Did I tell you the cops wrote “superficial cuts” in their report?

          They didn’t understand when I said

I needed something red. They didn’t understand when I said

           I needed to paint my chest vermillion

I’m scared to go home. Have I told you that?

           I’ve always been

I keep having a nightmare where my hands grow into copper antlers

           I keep having this nightmare where I hold

                       a dandelion in one hand, a robin in the other

I made you something during craft hour. A paint-by-numbers thing

          Two deer in a winter forest full of birch trees

                       Look, a tiny spot of orange. Hunter orange

Blaze orange. See the buck? His antlers are still velvet

          See how strong he’s standing?      No, wait

                       his right front leg is soft on the ground.       No

He’s not standing, he’s kneeling. Only,

          He’s not kneeling

                       He’s fallen. Notice

There’s only one deer now and he’s still

          His tongue juts from the corner of his mouth

                       His eyes are focused on me

Wait, his head is missing. The antlers are gone.  Everything

          Is gone. There’s a bright streak

                       of red screaming across the snow 

There are only shadows now and boot prints. There’s only snow

          I made you something during craft hour

                       A cheap paint-by-numbers rip-off of O’Keeffe

A forest of birch trees but the math of it all didn’t make sense

         So I painted the numbers blank, then left

                       I couldn’t focus so I went and shot free throws

I thought about the man who tried hanging himself

         How afraid he must have been about going home

                      That dandelion is his ghost. His head

A thousand yellow florets, burning. The sun

         Never felt so good. I’m glad you’re here.