In the Madhouse

she’s streaked with gentian violet

bathed in alcohol

& whispered injuries


a little iodine & exercise can’t cure

& syphillis & the clap, crazy ain’t it

this sanatorium looks like a prison

this prison looks like a morgue

crenellated & domed in the forest

she begs

she rattles the bars

at the census man

who comes every ten years

to check a box

write her name

she is a citizen

a denizen

a wizened inmate

intimate with nonsense & spit

cozened with strait jackets

she stamps a dance.

About Karen To and Fro

Everything you didn't want to know about me!
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