Note Held

“Nothing but sunlight and gleaming, linoleum flecked with flame, a thick coat of wax that flashed down a corridor and led to a room, a place where I curled up a few innocuous inches off the floor. Straps—word out of strophe, the restraints of line and stanza— straps hung in loops on closet hooks. On the nightstand a basket with peanut butter crackers, a vivid and unnatural orange, a crinkly wrap. A knee-high fridge stocked with icy juices, foil boxes, straws glued on. A female voice next door claimed she was still a human being, though I could not hear the reasons. When it was my turn, I answered right away, saying I knew where I was and why. No, I would not harm myself, surprised to be asked as I had never had the thought. Yes I knew where I was going next. Out the window and through shadow and streetlight, I saw how this building connected to the next. I was to follow a stripe painted on the wall. Someone would walk with me as well. I felt fine I said, and it was sort of true. Actually I felt nailed by one wrist to a desire to flee and by the other to a sincere longing for sleep. I was not in pain. Thank you. I felt like the very last note in a concert, the one that hovers as if it wants to linger, but is already over.”