Poetry With Hart

The static of his mind
blew apart the EKG machine.

I don’t know what language
freedom, will be written in

on his hospital release papers,
or if they will ever be inked again.

He was bouncing off the walls today,
slamming pads, brick, doorways, and glass.

Demons were in his bones, he said
he was just trying to shake them loose.

They don’t like that I brought
H.P. Lovecraft among his gifts this visit.

It means they’ll be hearing about
Cthulhu in his delusional intonations

every day, for the rest of the week,
but I can’t help that it’s his favorite.

We don’t talk about the time
he tried to run for the door.

His empty-eyed defeat as the ward doors
closed in front of him, with me

on the other side. It was weeks
before I was allowed to see him again.

Instead it’s about the books and that
he noticed my hair is shorter now.

Changes from the outside world,
life going on. I leave heavier

than I arrived. I try to speak
to the Uber driver when I leave

but the words sink, and don’t make it out.
He turns on the radio to fill the void,

like the light-less city of R’lyeh,
beneath the sea. I hear only static.