Note Held

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.”