We just withered away like plants <br />that hadn't been watered <br />Nor had enough light; <br />You were bloated with insulin, <br />I shocked by shock treatments. <br /> <br />The staff, quacks and nurses, <br />Dried us in towels of tenderness, <br />And powdered us with condescending words, <br />Then strapped us tightly down <br />on beds that felt like boards - <br />Our screams were clear. <br />“The blood is gushing from our hearts- <br />Find a tourniquet so it may stop.” <br /> <br />They stared and shook their heads <br />And blinked at us: <br />'Dears, you are like droopy plants, <br />Waiting for our special care; <br />We will give you chlorophyll injections <br />And feed you green Fertitabs in here <br />So your flimsy stems will, once again, <br />Stand erect, in which case <br />You will at least be saleable <br />When you leave here, <br />Or decorate an empty waiting-room, <br />Or some hall table, or sit on the sill <br />In a dying man’s room. <br />But, remember, <br />You must cooperate in here'. <br />“Who are you”, we said, 'for we are <br />Having trouble with our souls.” <br /> <br />'We are Doctors of Disgrace <br />And Surgeons of Despair – <br />There isn’t any space –we don't <br />Touch souls in here. <br />They are like bubbles floating <br />Out of reach, <br />That burst <br />And sting our eyes - <br />We hate souls Here.” <br /> <br />We strained our minds through written lines, <br />We sieved our memories for hope; <br />We watched the ink blots blur, <br />As they swabbed away our tears, <br />So wasted There. <br />“We flew too near the sun, <br />Our skin is burned, <br />Our blisters ooze… <br />We have to find the Middle Air”, <br />I said. <br />You said: 'Let's get out of Here. <br />We must go home instead <br />To convalesce; the sun still shines <br />And blisters aren’t so bad <br />Compared to Here.”<br /><br />Philippa Lane<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lgh-four-east-1968/
