Bare green walls,
bed bolted to the floor.
One barred opening
set in an armored door.
A lone window overlooks
a flat tarred roof, sheltering
walls of dirty brick.
I look through those bars.
She sits on that bed,
fidgets, stands,
and walks circuits.
The door opens. I enter,
"How are you today?"
She looks in my direction,
opens her mouth;
says nothing.
I place a magazine on her bed
"I brought you a Vogue."
She picks it up
feathers through pages; drops it.
Her wrists show
small white scars
puckered in dirty yellow.
"When can I leave?"
I have no answer.
Then I see blood on her feet
and call for the nurse.
Finally I leave.
Time lasts too long
sometimes
she comes to me
through my sleep.
Flaunts her bloody wrists and crimson feet
then taunts this toothless old god
with that question
in the stillness.