The Schizophrenic

It was like

there was a blueprint in her,

as in the insect and the flower,

the flower that guards the secret

of the trapdoor to its nectar

from all but that one,

that one winged insect:

partners.

A blueprint

showing

where the home cooked meals go,

the helping hand,

the tender touch.

And then

the builders came

and used what materials

they wanted to use

and put things

where they wanted to put them;

a large hand slapping

the small mouth

to shut it;

watching

the unwanted puppies

drowned one by one;

the nose at the wall,

“On the wall!  Touching the wall.”

and one foot up, poised, for hours:

“That’s right - you’re a jailbird.”

No one noticed

the blueprint lift and drift

with a careless wind

to a nameless, shadowed alley.

Stuck to a grate,

dimming, thinning.

Motionless

but for the occasional movement

at a strong wind, a foot;

a single rise and fall

like a breath

at the end.

But the memory remained,

the instinct.

Searching and searching

and finding the keys

to unlock drawers inside her;

rummaging, rummaging,

tossing the contents out

like one in a frantic hurry

to run away.

Looking through closets,

under beds,

behind dressers.

Searching and searching

and finally finding

a blueprint.

There is a reason for all that happens.

The cornerstone.

I am to show the world the way

at the end of my trials,

but they must first know for certain

that I was tried,

tested;

that I bore a cross

and a crown of thorns.

How cunningly they hide

the microphones, the cameras;

have me relive the pain

twice, thrice,

four times,

ten.

Only, I’m more cunning than they:

I can play all day.

        

Now

not only no more searching,

but everything falls into place,

comes to her,

is a part of it.

Tears at the window

for the beauty

of her face etched upon the moon

and all that the constellations

tell her

about what to do

and where to go

and how to find

a home cooked meal,

a helping hand,

a tender

touch.

Mona Kool