The Call, 4:09 AM

Your mother calls

to inform me you're locked down

for a 72-hour observational hold

at the Trenton County psych ward,

and I should've realized 

something 

wasn't 

quite

right

when I saw you pulled a Britney Spears--

with an uncharacteristically militant haircut 

and a dye-job as cheap looking as the 

strawberry shortcake shade 

on the 10 dollar 

at-home coloring kit box--

amber as the alerts

now ringing like

air raid sirens

in my ears. 

I'm sorry

I assumed you'd just had a little to much to drink.

I send smoke signals from my cigarette;

I'm feeling particularly removed 

from you, across three state lines. 

I attempt to find solace in knowing

we're sleeping under the same constellations.

Do you see what I see?

Did the full moon trigger your psychoses? 

I would still love you if you transformed 

into a werewolf--I once fucked and octopus

in my dreams--surely, we could

make this work. 

I imagine you in your hospital bed, 

playing dead and eavesdropping 

on your roommate as he whispers 

to flowers in the wallpaper. 

You look good in white, I think to myself. 

I drag the rivers of my mind,

sifting for the scrap

of evidence that ties you

to my unarguably unhinged

contemporaries; 

no clues emerge,

only bodies breach the surface: 

Andy the meth-head, 

who was found by the cops

sneaking around in the ditches

outside of Mary's house two summer's ago,

wearing nothing but his birthday suit

and a rung of brass knuckles. 

Crystal, with her frazzled aqua-marine curls,

waltzing in the middle of the road--

in the dead of winter, in the dead of night--

in a soiled ball gown and 

twirling a fully decorated

artificial christmas tree

above her head. 

Bam Senate, who handcuffed himself

to a wheel chair, lifted the breaks

and thrusted himself down Big Ruth's driveway into rush-hour traffic--

into freedom, he told us after.  

And Holly, who convinced even me

that we weren't alone that night, 

that the blue car had followed us home, 

and didn't I see him, just now, in the window?

I thought you said you locked the door. 

You didn't turn that light on, did you?

You heard those footsteps too, 

right?

No. 

You're not the one whose crazy. 

Your father tells me you'll call 

when you get better, 

and I wonder if that means 

once the benzos kick in, 

or once the shock therapy 

shows signs of success. 

I begin to dissect every moment we ever spent together; 

your fervent infatuation could have just as easily been mania… 

No.

I feel embarrassed for questioning your authenticity. 

Still, 

I could 

drive myself 

mad 

wondering 

what they're doing to you in there,

and if you'll still love me 

when you get 

out.