“This used to be my brain, now is a grave yard
where memories rot in grey and brown shades.
Once I could remember what they were about.
I do not mind. My mind has done with me.”
She stares over the street that she can’t name.
Her room is on the top floor of the building
where windows never open. Black birds
smash themselves against the glass. Despair.
“I need a spade,” she tells the nurse who frowns.
“I need to dig the grave yard up.”
Her medication is adjusted. Another black bird
kills itself by wanting to get in. Some years go by.
One morning her bed is found empty. A window
is shattered, glass everywhere. But no sign of her,
she seems to have disappeared. A note says:
“Gone to do some digging.” And a black bird screams.