Somehow, that August, the six
hour drive took nine. I lay
like luggage in the back
of my dad’s car, listening
to a mix tape from the morning’s
mail, wishing I’d had time
to learn the words.
My mom ate sandwiches
she’d previously prepared.
My dad munched trail mix
he picked up at gas stations.
Breaking from the highway,–
stretch your legs,–
I wouldn’t leave the car.
The blue sign by the roadside
read hospital next right. I turned
my head away, knowing that
in a year I hadn’t made
even one right move.
Smiling, my dad pointed. “Getting
close now,” he nodded, as if
this were a road trip, a vacation,
“Are we there yet?” the only
concern he knew to mollify.
The psych hospital in red brick
on the hill behind more trees
than I could see through
should have made me cry,
but I had packaged feeling
up with eating and buried
both ages before.
Opening my car door, for
the first time in nine hours
I stood in the parking lot
of Rogers, remembering
the woman on the phone,
who asked me, kindly,
how much I wanted to be well.
What could I tell her? or anyone?
Average more than anything, I think,
with I don’t have a snowball’s
chance in hell. Average I would
give anything, with I have
nothing left to give.
[...] Next Right (notes). To read the poem, click here. Or read about this series [...]
[...] tend to think of these drafts as version one. “Sixteen” is an exception, as was “Hospital Next Right” — I wrote both of these pieces yesterday. After I wrote “HNR” and [...]