Claire on Sunday

she wakes up
……. in the hospital (still in restraints)

padded cuffs around her wrists
…….her feet drumming
a tattoo like they’re attached to a different
……. band
spit matting her hair to her cheek

…………. overhead
the light from her bedroom when she was
…. ten, full of black flies

it speaks to her….crystal edges humming

…..…. it sees her mother is about to come

in Claire can’t see the door ……. the light won’t let her
………. turn her head ……. but she knows ……. her mother’s

standing there on the cusp her mother’s mental implements
……. in her doctor’s coat

……. and the light coaxes Claire out of the covers
………….. until she’s floating two feet up

…….…. swimming in chords of violent gardenia perfume
……. tasting the breasts of her aunts, the lawns of her neighbors,
……. the skies full of planes

……. Claire’s in heaven ……. black and cold ……. no oxygen and the stars
bite her shoulders ……. they talk in low, neutral voices
…….…. about dates
…………. and times and dosages

……….…........ God comes
to speak to Claire……. pulling light bulbs from his mouth
……... but she can’t hear because of the angels singing

like loud rain underwater ……. they pull her down and down, hands
………. on her wrists and ankles

………. she’s worried she’ll never see
God again and that
I’ll never get to tell him what I know