January 8, 2009


by R.B. Morgan

Another woman gone.
Cat mourns, crouched
Beneath the filthy bed.
Bills rot with the cold
Food, rotting on the table.
My one friend, Guyla,
The androgynous schizophrenic,
Calls to tell me that winter
Has slammed down
The iron lid.
She cannot tell the ground from
The sky.
I say, You never could.
Her laugh is hoarse and dry from
The bad meds they give her,
To help her remember
Gravity, which she flatly rejects.
Guyla never yells, Look, I can fly.
She takes off, without a word.
They've pinned her back together,
How many times,
A plate in her head, a rod in her thigh.
Smug bastards are the easiest to fool.
She flies when
They're not watching.
And lands and grins and cheeks
Her meds. Guyla perches, preens,
And waits for the next opportunity.
It will come, my one friend tells
Me. And for you too, she says.
Just don't listen to them. Their truth
Is our lie.
Kid, I say, sad and hung-over, Kid,
When you get out I have the works,
And some shit from Chicago.
Do that right, you'll soar for days.
Okay, but I don't need it. You can have it.
Man, watch and learn. I have my own way.
The line goes dead.
The therapist's hand, heavy as winter,
Slams down on the receiver.
Guyla will sit there. Sit there.
Then he will pay.

This happens all the time.
They actually think they
Can keep her.
I'll do just a little of that
Hot shit from Chicago,
Know the woman is not coming back,
Coax the cat from her place of mourning,
Try to clean this goddamned place up,
Leave a window open,
For my one friend.

Come on, Guyla,
I'll talk you down.
Come on, come in,
Nice and steady.
Make it a three point.
Let the bird,
Just this one time,
Safely touch the ground.


Post a Comment