by Lynne Jensen Lampe
Days you exhale amber
light, pace hours in the hells
of Jackson—the gray-gown
shuffle, electroshock the cure.
Doctors say this is progress—
no induced malarial fever, no
insulin coma, no Dr. Freeman
swiveling ice picks in a lobotomy
of his own design, a two-fisted
showman, PT Barnum in scrubs.
Hundreds of shock treatments
shake your brain, your body
until doctors forsake seizures,
search labs for answers
we pretend they already have.
After discharge, you string
beads every four to six hours
in any color they prescribe—
Pink, red, orange. Yellow, blue.
Green, white, brown.
Lithium, Haldol, Tofranil.
Mellaril, Ellavil, Valium. Cymbalta,
Seroquel, Ativan, Thorazine.
I chew names till I’m full
of sorry, the one drug
with no expiration date.
Lynne Jensen Lampe has poems published in or forthcoming from Anti-Heroin Chic, One, The American Journal of Poetry, Rock & Sling, Small Orange, and elsewhere. She was a finalist for the 2020 Red Wheelbarrow Poetry Prize. Her current project focuses on the intersection of conformity, sanity, and family. She lives in the midwestern US, where she edits academic journals and books. Find her on Twitter: @LJensenLampe.
Hyades Magazine 