letter to the green-haired hospital veteran
there are only two ways to enter the psychward &
while everyone always forgets the second
Nadia, Nadia, has experienced both
fluorescent green hair & eyes that look like
underwater caves, drowning, & struggling
Nadia is the closest thing there is to a veteran
not the bullets & planes kind, well
maybe, if bullets are trauma listed on white sheets
& planes are black snake cameras, I guess
Nadia has surv(i)ved it.
but this, this isn’t biography, or documentation
rather, a love letter, a letter of mutuality trapped
in the only medium I have left, because
while you were a veteran, I was a virgin, &
the true measure of love isn’t hands, sweat, &
tongues kissing in deserted entryways
but grippy socks stolen from nurses pockets
& backs pressed against bricks &
playing kings corner with half a deck.
---
before I write about wheelchairs & earplugs
& bean burgers, I want you to know the ending &
ending & end(ing) &(en)ding & e(nding) &
doors pushed open, backwards into syringes, &
buckles clacking & soft-tipped screams &
pleading nurses grasping hair & flesh breaking flesh
& five minutes before, after you left, I
stare & you stare back into
a blonde haired flower, & all we whisper is “breathe”, like it’s your turn
to put a tangled story back together again.
By Cobin Szymanski
