Prose Poetry
How to Steal from a Poet: Mater Terribilis
In the asylum
Rattle, rattle, squeak. Comes the nurse with the trolley.
I hope she has Mum’s co-codamol, her distalgesics, her valium, her Korean Ginseng.
I don’t suppose they allow whiskey.
The floor is red and polished. The beds are metal; the walls are white.
It’s not an asylum, but I like the Victorian-ness of the word; it helps me cope with her attempt to kill herself.
The beds are in a line, the patients sitting, their eyes agog at visitors.
My mum is in the furthest bed. In a corner. She always likes to have her back to a wall.
Last week my sister and my dad clip-clopped down this ward, their footsteps echoing horribly my sister said, like poison darts, she said.
Mater Terribilis heard the footsteps of my sister and my dad on the red floor.
She looked up and when she saw my sister and dad, she screamed, ‘What do you two fuckers want?’
My sister showed me what she and my dad had done next:
My sister lifted her arms, her hands fists, and pumped them like a pretend train. Her feet left the floor Flintstone-like and in the air she…
