Always with this smashing, muddy river. And my
child vexed. The white sky her screams crested.
The white coats rounding the kid wing. Where
histories were charted, looks gauged. Under my
touch. Scrolled symptoms and elevators. Chimes. A
drip was hung. A bed opened, a gown. In a room
with a magic mural. One wand sent forth waves of
sound her tissues made bounce. Unheard
echoeswent. In or out of view. Bats in the mural.

Bedrails. Yet her roiling. Not to be contained. We
were spoken with. I wanted any edge to punch
through. There was none. No night, no shrinking,
no edifice, none. Doorframe. I went wooden too.
All call buttons called. Wood still feels. Cut so. I
forgot our stories.

Not I. Sang the moon in the mural. Sang the witch.
Sang the fish. Until rivers rose. And a piece of
water turned back into a girl chin to chest curled
into herself.

Listen. The girl sings exultant songs from our
house by the river that spills over walls into
dreams.