They come in their pretty suits,
ties and buttons hung with degrees,
to bleed their diagnosis from
a book of black and white
into my head trusting
therapy and pills are my salvation.
There are whispers in the valley of my ears,
“She’s a jagged glass of broken mirrors
that hears what doesn’t speak, and
asks to go out to the courtyard
so she can gather shadows to place
in vases on her windowsill.”
In the distance a radio grinds out tunes
in confetti spurts of voices that are supposed
to soothe my demons, but in truth only
gives me images of cigarette ash spittle
falling on the tiles from burnout tongues.
Why am I named patient in this Crazyatorium,
when those who picture frame their degrees
can’t find their way home if the GPS fails on their Tesla.
Don’t they know a poet will never fit a diagnosis?
Hell, I can’t explain myself to myself.
Give me an image and I hear things.
Give me a list of words and I see things.
Am I insane? I don’t know.
I can just as easily write myself into appearing normal
as I can spill inky crow verses of anomaly.
©Susie Clevenger 2024
