Letters from an Institution by Michael Ryan

Letters from an Institution

The ward beds float like ghost ships   

in the darkness, the nightlight

above my bed I pretend is a lighthouse   

with a little man inside who wears   

a sailor cap and tells good old stories   

of the sea. The little man is me.   

Perhaps I have a dog called Old Salt   

who laps my hand and runs endlessly   

down the circular stairs.

Perhaps he bites like sin.

I dream of ships smashing the reefs,   

their bottoms gutting out,

the crews’ disembodied voices screaming   

Help us help us help somebody please   

and there is no one there at all   

not even me. I wake up nervous,

Old Salt gnawing my flesh. I wake up nervous,   

canvas bedstraps cutting my groin.   

The night nurse, making the rounds,   

says I bellow in sleep like a foghorn.

*

Nothing moves at night   

except small animals   

kept caged downstairs   

for experiments, going   

bullshit, and the Creole   

janitor’s broom whisking   

closer by inches.

In the ward, we all

have room for errors and elbows

to flail at excitement.

We’re right above the morgue;

the iceboxes make our floor   

cold. The animals seem to know

when someone, bored with holding

on, gives out: they beat   

their heads and teeth   

against the chicken wire   

doors, scream and claw   

The janitor also knows.   

He props his heavy broom   

against his belt, makes   

a sign over himself

learned from a Cajun,   

leaves us shaking

in our bedstraps

to drag the still

warm and nervous body   

down from Isolation.

*

I have a garden in my brain

shaped like a maze

I lose myself

in, it seems. They only look for me   

sometimes. I don’t like my dreams.

The nurses quarrel over where I am   

hiding. I hear from inside   

a bush. One is crisp

and cuts; one pinches. I’d like to push   

them each somewhere.

They both think it’s funny

here. The laughter sounds like diesels.   

I won’t come out because I’m lazy.   

You start to like the needles.

You start to want to crazy.