Friday, September 28, 2012

Institutional Memory

The Drive Home

They drove the Haldol home, neat.
Deft plunge into your writhing muscle,
clenched tethered animal drenched and driven
beneath my hands

A sharp tang of metal in the mouth, we shared
great gulps of air
made rank with fear, a tincture of shit
at war
with the high gloss of sour sweat swelling the sides
of our sealed tin can

Hurtling west running the lights driving you home
under low spelter skies
slashing teeth biting down
on round boneyard howls  

heard down a drain pipe our free hands a beat behind
your upturned feet churning
in sacred dance,

perhaps, bestowed as rain from the gods
pouring through the shattered moon roof

home at last.
We pierced the circle drive
and trailed you inside, borne along
by wordless monks  
the sign of the cross
in four-point restraint

your eyes rolling back
as you received the blessed sacrament.

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