I traveled the system,
the secret system no one
whispers about, fear they will
be thrown in. I am a historian.
I am a journalist. I belong here.

Just for stabilization.

Converted motel. Roommates
three feet apart. Teresa with
the stutter. Teresa with the
seizures. Teresa with the open
heart, broken. Teresa with
the fear. Teresa with the tenderness,
the fall.

Equine face against mine. Tears.
Mystery tears. Shoulders caved
inward, collapsing my rib cage. I
cannot sing. I could not. I cannot still.

Med lines. Glucose test.
Blood pressure, temp,
inverted moon. Bowel movement?
Rate your pain. Days I felt
homesick. Did not want to leave.

Where the crazy people go.

Where the hurt people go.
Where the pain took us when
there was a dead end or a thread
or a bridge or a rope.

Too much for one poem.