A Candid Glimpse
Molly Conway
A slight girl, eleven, stringy long hair,
bangs cut crooked above her eyebrows, her
do-it-yourself job with stolen scissors,
white face, small dark eyes, sunken, half-closed, sits
on the edge of her bed with feet dangling
above the polished floor. White, bare walls, twelve
foot-high ceiling, narrow, steel-barred windows,
rows of white covered beds, the smell of pee,
vomit, and disinfectant. Hushed footsteps
echo in the dark hallway. Metal keys
jangle on a steel ring. “Poke your eyes out!”
a woman’s voice, mean, angry, inside her
head. Orange demon charicatures, five
or seven, dance their twisted fitful dance
and reach out skinny arms towards her. The judge
high on his bench, bangs the wooden gavel
and bellows, “Innocent!” The demons, five
or seven, screech in unison and burst
into flames. The girl sobs deeply from her
abdomen, her flat chest heaving. She runs
out into the hallway looking for an
attendent. A woman, red gloss lips, brings
a long syringe and gently leads the girl
to her flat bed. A priest stands by praying.
