You heard the voices wafting

Beyond the mechanical street.

Attending seraphs sighing

You caught their half-notes

In the narrows of the halls at night.

Unscrewing lightbulbs from the sockets,

Blinding the world to heed the light,

You announced in the kitchen

With old prophetic ardor

Against our din of talk and pans

That Jesus was come, or at least nigh.

We searched your drawer for medication,

Counted out uneaten anodynes

And knew you’d fallen from our heights.

We dialed the doctor,

The mental institution down the street

And the cops, in case.

When the knock came upon the door,

You stepped into the open night

Clutching my hand for your progress.

In a blanched, fluorescent lobby

The white-robed clerks look on and code

Forms behind the silent glass.

Huddling on my lap, shivering with fear,

Where only a rubber plant droops to hear,

You try to tell us all again

The singing of the voices.

Then move into the silence of eclipse.

Articles by Mary Freeman

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