One East : The Ward

The worlds we never see: both a block and a revelation

     Twilight — the home front casualties are winding down.

          The weeping and anger are abated —

               The daily revelations have worn them down.

     Rape and maybe murder were committed —

          If not upon the body, then the mind.

               There is no end to what we do. To one another.

     There is no end to what’s been done to them.

                                                                               Patricia Andrews

                                                                                                   1997

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Day One, “Agnes”:

     Twilight — and one, quite gone, gives voice.

          The tune comes down the hall and finds me out.

               Some ancient tent revival tune:

     “He, died, He died, He died for you.

          “Can you not live for him?”

               Alone at last — no longer threatened —

     The mad may sing their questions without fear.

          Blessed that there is nothing left that needs remembering,

               She listens to a tune we cannot hear.

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Day Two, “Sharon”:

     You walked into the flash bulb unaware —

          Your face a mass of lumps and broken bone.

               Who could forget that stare?

     A child lay dead, and those who still were whole

          Believed you should have known —

               Not knowing that your numbness shields a choking soul.

     And blind obedience will prevent the pain a little while,

          And there’s incomprehensible sleep when you’re alone,

                Or abysmal deep black terror when you hear his step again.

     You lose your focus in a concentration camp.

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Day Three, “Blythe”:

     “We’ve been married forty years you know,”

          And her foot begins to quiver —

               Ever so resentfully.

     “I snore and wake him up, you know.

          We sleep in bedrooms separately.

               It’s O.K. If you’re old, I guess;”

     but her eyes are red occasionally.

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Day Four, “Joy”:

     She just wrung her hands, you know.

          They were just red — and cracked from all the chafing.

     “I just can’t seem to stop what I’m doing. I just want to get out

            and spend!”

     Just two weeks later, someone called to tell me

           She got in the car, started the engine, and never shopped again.

     There wasn’t a thing anyone could do.

          I didn’t make it to the funeral.

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Day Five, “SuziQ”:

     “I want people to respect me more!”

            She was angry and confused.

      She did not notice her childish voice

           That spoke in such sweet and lisping tones.

      “I am thirty-seven years old and I always get my way —

            Except in this one thing!”

       “Why do you treat me like a child!”

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