2 minute read
Samuel Salinas Ramos
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Ash Bird
You will stop being the wind on the ice sphinx to kiss the Aurora.
You will no longer be the frost, nor the reef, nor the crystal dust in my throat, nor the Minotaur’s agony in the labyrinth.
You will be a bird of ashes that emerges every day to drink a drop of light and you will have a kite made of clouds and a caress for when your back hurts and a mouth to share sighs.
To stop painting nails in loneliness.
To stop scrawling on the walls.
To no longer be cold.
El Ojo Magica
El Ojo Magica
El Ojo Magica
El Ojo Magica
Donna Langevin
In Lieu of Family Photos
in my grandmother’s voice, Saint Jean de Dieu Asylum, 1930
In lieu of family photos forbidden to inmates here, we’re forced to stare at holy pictures hanging everywhere.
In the dining room hall, Christ seated at a long wooden table like ours, takes away our appetite as he blesses his Last Supper.
On the infirmary wall, he weeps tears of blood in Gethsemane, while in another frame, the Good Shepherd holds his raw heart in his hands as if nothing could heal it, or save those who wait strapped down for their next lightning bolt.
More than the crucifixes nailed up in every dorm, the one realistic painting in the visitors’ parlour pierces holes in my side—
Children surround Jesus offering wildflowers and treats. They climb into his lap and gaze at him expectantly, the way my lost little ones once looked at me.
Pictures Behind My Closed Eyelids
in my grandmother’s voice, Saint Jean de Dieu asylum, 1926
Donald
At six, my willowy son with dark almond-shaped eyes and buttercup hair, is a well-made child except for his indented rib cage that never detached from his spine. Not life-threatening, but the cavity in Don’s centre displaces his heart, and worsens.
I love you just as you are; we call it his treasure chest.
After a bully at the beach calls Don the kid with a hole, I find him sleeping with a rag stuffed in that hollow, held with masking tape.
With me in this asylum, will he come to believe I abandoned him, leaving his chest, a crater filling with rage and shame?
