The Voices of Rosewood:

Notes from the Woodlawn Project

Compiled and Edited by: Elizabeth Woodlawn

Rosewood Press Lafayette, LA ~ 2011 ~

In Loving Memory of Dr. Jim Springer Borck

Table of Contents
Acknowledgements.............................................................................................................................................3 A Brief History Of Rosewood and the Woodlawn Project..........................................................................4

Eunice..................................................................................................................5
The Importance of Morning Yogurt.............................................................................................................6

Karen....................................................................................................................7
In the Temple Beth Israel Cemetery...........................................................................................................8 My Ex-Husbands Last Supper...............................................................................................................9

Elizabeth (Betty).................................................................................................10
Through the Burbs..................................................................................................................................11

Deborah..............................................................................................................12 Alice....................................................................................................................14
A Communication Disorder....................................................................................................................15

A Note to Our Doctor............................................................................................................................13

Caroline...............................................................................................................16
Note From My Mother...........................................................................................................................17 The Apple Speaks...................................................................................................................................18 On a Cold Summer Day.........................................................................................................................20

Annie...................................................................................................................19 Lucille.................................................................................................................21

To My Drowned Husband, A Retrospective.............................................................................................22 To Mother, Regarding Your Sexuality.....................................................................................................26 Three Years Waiting Without Tears........................................................................................................27

Naomi.................................................................................................................25

Shelby..................................................................................................................28
On Reading the Diary of Martha Ballard While Working for the Yellow Pages......................................29

Ethel...................................................................................................................30
Keep-Away on a Spring Afternoon..........................................................................................................31

Margaret.............................................................................................................32

Second-Hand Habit................................................................................................................................33 ~1~

Cindy...................................................................................................................35
Storage....................................................................................................................................................36

Sarah...................................................................................................................37
Andrew, With Blue Eyes........................................................................................................................38 Dozing in the Car...................................................................................................................................40

Penelope.............................................................................................................41

Sprung.....................................................................................................................................................42 Fallen......................................................................................................................................................43 On My Murdered Father........................................................................................................................45 Waiting for WordMy Mothers Heart Attack....................................................................................46

Ginger.................................................................................................................44

Jessica (Jesse).....................................................................................................47
On Capitalism........................................................................................................................................48

Faith....................................................................................................................50
Driving With Pipsy....................................................................................................................... .........51

Regina.................................................................................................................52
Ghetto Haiku.........................................................................................................................................53 Sulfur Lamps..........................................................................................................................................54 Urban Springtime Parking Lot...............................................................................................................55

Olive....................................................................................................................56
The Austin Fugue...................................................................................................................................57 Austin-Aggressive....................................................................................................................................59

Ashley.................................................................................................................60

Gratuity..................................................................................................................................................61

Closing................................................................................................................................................................64

~2~

Acknowledgments The editors would like to thank the administration of The Rosewood Home for Women, without whose commitment to this project, none of this would be possible. Especially to Dr. Yvonne Washington, whose patience, tolerance, and sheer gumption kept us going even in the wee hours. Thanks go out to all the women of Rosewood for creating their beautiful art and giving us the right to publish it. Thanks to Mr. Louis Woodlawn, Dr. Elizabeth Woodlawns tireless husband, who never failed to show up with a pot of coffee and a kind word just as it was needed. Equal thanks to their son, Randy, who never seemed to run out of sunshine. Thanks to Alyssa Kingston, the receptionist at Rosewood and Miss Naomi Richards partner in all things. You kept us all on target and striving toward the goal. Not to mention being our typist and copy editor, which we so sorely needed. Also thanks to The Delta Undergraduate Journal of Baton Rouge, who first published On My Murdered Father and Ghetto Haiku. Thanks as well to The Texas Poetry Journal which first published Sprung. And Unarmed Journal, who kindly published Storage. Also, to The Diagram, which published To My Drowned Husband: A Retrospective. We cannot forget Flutter, who published A Communication Disorder and A Note to Our Doctors. Lastly, our friends at The American Drivel Review, who published Austin-Aggressive. If you like what you read here, donate your time or your money to: The National Domestic Violence Hotline 1-800-799-SAFE http://www.ndvh.org/ The Rape Abuse and Incest National Network 1-800-656-HOPE http://www.rainn.org/

~3~

A History of Rosewood Home for Women and The Woodlawn Project Rosewood Home for Women was established in 1935 in Thibodeaux, Louisiana, by a joint grant from Franklin D. Roosevelts Public Works Association and the Louisiana State Health Commission. Consisting of a large main building and two dormitories, Rosewood is situated on three sunny acres and boasts a large garden that the patients have planted themselves. The facility includes a fully-equipped gymnasium and a well-stocked library. Rosewood offers classes in everything from pottery to poetry, strongly believing in the power of art to heal. Since its inception, Rosewood has been dedicated to providing a peaceful, loving environment for the recovery of all its patients. The friendly staff at Rosewood remains its finest resource. Our doctors, nurses, and therapists bring over 200 years of combined experience to their patients. The combination of tested medication, proven therapy settings, and innovative new techniques has given Rosewood one of the highest full-recovery rate in the nation (over 80%). Upon the completion of the Aurita and Silas Kratzenberg Dormitory and Ward in 1936, Rosewood has been able to offer high security housing for women. From then on, almost 30% of Louisiana women sentenced to a term in a mental health facility have been cared for by Rosewood. In July of 1970, Paul Tandberg, the head psychiatrist at Rosewood, suggested that the board of directors hire an expert in the field of art therapy. After careful consideration of a number of candidates, the board chose a promising young psychiatrist with a second degree in English. This young woman, Elizabeth Woodlawn, taught three sessions of writing therapy and two sessions of general art therapy every week. The program was wildly successful, and lead to the current art therapy program at Rosewood. Elizabeth Woodlawn spent a very rewarding 33 years at Rosewood before retiring in 2003. Her program, however, lives on. The Woodlawn Project is now headed by Naomi Richard, who was an actual patient of Miss Woodlawns in the late eighties. After getting dual Masters Degrees in English and Social Work from Louisiana State University, Naomi returned to Rosewood in order to be trained by her former therapist. Since Miss Woodlawns retirement, Naomi Richard has brought her program to seven other institutions in Louisiana, Mississippi, and Arkansas. This collection of work represents women who might not have a voice if it was not for The Woodlawn Project. Each of these women (or their families, in the case of the deceased) has contributed her words and her story to this book so that the world will know the difference that The Woodlawn Project has made in her life. Compiled and edited by Miss Woodlawn herself, this collection lends both touching and startling insight into the lives of a demographic that is so often ignored. I hope you enjoy this book. So do Miss Woodlawn, Miss Richard, and all the doctors, nurses, staff, and patients inside Rosewood. As Miss Woodlawn says, every day is a blessed day for art. Thank you and happy reading,

Dr. Yvonne Washington Head Psychiatrist Rosewood Home for Women

~4~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Eunice Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 03/30/1930 Admit Date: 08/17/1955 Discharge: NO Death: 10/25/1980, suicide Patient History: (It is very important to mention that this level of obsession and fetishism is very rarely encountered by the mental health profession.) Eunice entered Rosewood following the violent murder of her husband and their two small children. Apparently, she'd developed an obsession/ fetish for a certain little white cup. She was under the impression that terrible things happened whenever she failed to perform her morning ritual of yogurt. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, aversion therapy, medication, insulin shock therapy, electroconvulsive therapy, art therapy from Aug. 1970. Preliminary Diagnosis: Obsessive disorder with clinical fetishism (SEVERE).

Post Treatment Notes: On October 25, 1980, Eunice was involved in an altercation with another patient. During the altercation, her fetish object, the little white ceramic cup, was accidentally destroyed. Eunice used a shard of the cup to savage that patients face, seriously injure her therapist, and finally, to kill herself.

Primary Psychiatrist: J.S. Borck, M.D. In/Outpatient? Inpatient (1955-1970), T. Whitbread, M.D (1970-1980) Additional Notes: Death ruled suicide by coroner, November of 1980. Primary Therapist: J. Kroll, L. Durbin Additional Case Workers: Barras, Lambert, Woodlawn Security Level: High

~5~

The Importance of Morning Yogurt Every morning, I have a bit of yogurt in a little white ceramic cup. The yogurt is strawberry, and very, very good. Sometimes, I have it with bacon and eggs scrambled with butter and pepper. Sometimes, with a toasted bagel and melting cream cheese topped with slices of fresh tomato that I grew myself. But I must always have yogurt in a little white ceramic cup. Not just because it is tasty (and it is quite tasty) but because it is so good for me. I dont feel like myself when I do not have a bit of yogurt in a little white ceramic cup.1 Eunice O

My therapist says that it is necessary to inform you that the last time I forwent my morning yogurt, I killed a man and two small children. I do not agree that this is vital to your understanding of the importance of morning yogurt. However, she is quite wise and I do value her opinion. As a compromise, I have included this fact as a footnote.

~6~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Karen Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 07/23/1935 Admit Date: 10/19/1970 Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Karen was admitted to the hospital in 1970, after mutilating her husband. Before marriage, she had several "episodes" of violence, erratic behavior, and two suicide attempts in her teens. Karen's condition finally reached its peak when she learned of her husband's infidelity, which resulted in a violent outburst that permanently crippled the husband. She was among Dr. Woodlawns first patients. Post Treatment Notes: Condition Devoutly Jewish in her youth, Karen has controlled. Patient remains at Rosewood. since experienced a disenfranchisement from her religion that is the frequent subject of her art. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, medication, art therapy from July 1970 Preliminary Diagnosis: Psychopathy/ schizophrenia

Primary Psychiatrist: G. Tandberg, M.D. Primary Therapist: D. Lambert, R. Kamenetz Additional Case Workers: Elvestrom, Clemons, Durbin, Martin, Woodlawn, Richard Security Level: High

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: Karen would like to add that she neither seeks nor expects release physical nor spiritualin this life.

~7~

In the Temple Beth Israel Cemetery The Jews lay rocks on their tombstones. Why not? They last longer than flowers. Special rocks. Blessed rocks from sacred placesfrom Holy Jerusalem or a brick from Warsaw a jar of colored pebbles from Auschwitz (the white ones look like broken teethoh god I think they are.) The lone mausoleum is white marble and huge, with a peach rock on the stoop. The stained glass window shines red and blue between a silk plant and steel bars and inch-thick glass. Jews are smart. But scraps they're persistent. The glass is cracked, running. The scraps fuck like dogs theregrinding against stones that the old women scrub clean on Saturday. Karen C.

~8~

My Ex-Husband's Last Supper I told the cops he was still alive when he leftand he was. I just neglected the fact that I'd ripped his fingernails out with pliers, then his toenails and his tongue. I cut his ears off and fed them to his dog. My cat is still playing with one eyeball. I used his pruning shears to take all his fingers (even the one with the gold band) and his toes. I shoved my red hot curling iron up his cheating ass. I saved the cock for lastsliced it thin and fried it upmade him chew before he swallowed. Yes, he was alive when he leftbleeding, stumbling, nakedbut he'd had a good meal. Karen C

~9~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Elizabeth Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 02/13/1945 Admit Date: 06/19/1959 Discharge: 12/30/1972 Death: NO Patient History: Betty was admitted after her mother caught her engaging in a sexual act with a neighbor girl. She was diagnosed with sexual inversion and nymphomania, which were common medical euphemisms for lesbianism. After lesbianism was declassified as a mental disorder, Betty was evaluated for other underlying conditions. None were found, and she was released on her own recognizance. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, aversion therapy, medication, art therapy from Aug. 1970. Preliminary Diagnosis: Complete inversion, nymphomania.

Post Treatment Notes: Patient released when the American Psychiatric Association voted to remove homosexuality from Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. No follow-up treatment.

Primary Psychiatrist: J.S. Borck, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: Betty wrote this poem in 1971, a year before her release. She lives in Phoenix with her wife and daughter.

Primary Therapist: M. Elvestrom Additional Case Workers: Barras, Clemons, Woodlawn Security Level: Low

~ 10 ~

Through the 'Burbs Everything is the same here. Cream paint, green shutters, clipped lawns, trimmed shrubs, pretty chartered gardens along prim picket fences. Black glass windows, or yellow with the shadows of window dressings under those brown gabled roofs. Wood porches stained Sunset, Rust Umber, Burnt Umber, or Redwood (but they all look the same, anyways). Straight grey sidewalks. Straight black streets. Straight tall lampposts with winking yellow lights. I stop in front of one house. (Which one? Doesn't matter.) I wish I had my car. I'd like to drive through the wide picture window crush the padded window seat, crash through the antique china cabinet, curtains and sheer panels flapping behind me ceramics crunching under my wheels startled housewife beside my rolled-down driver-side window. She'd drop her coffee, splashing tepid dark roast all over my white-walls. "Hey, pretty lady," I'd say, "Wanna go for a ride?" Betty S.

~ 11 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Deborah Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 12/26/1950 Admit Date: 02/29/1967 Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, medication, art therapy from July 1970 Preliminary Diagnosis: Inversion, schizophrenia

Discharge: 12/01/1972 Death: 06/07/2004 Patient History: Deborah was admitted to Rosewood after her fathers employer found out about her affair with his daughter. Her father was forced to admit the girl to Rosewood or else lose his job. Deborah's stay in Rosewood was marked by several incidents of petty theft and breaking and entering. She met Alice in group therapy and remained with her for life. In 2004, Deborah died in a car accident, which subsequently caused Alice to relapse and be readmitted to Rosewood.

Post Treatment Notes: Deborah was released after homosexuality ceased to be a mental disorder. She devoted her life to enriching the LGBTQ community, especially LBGTQ artists.

Primary Psychiatrist: G. Tandberg, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: Deborah's contributions to the LBGTQ community are honored with a large grant given in her name to one lucky LBGTQ artist every year.

Primary Therapist: M. Elvestrom Additional Case Workers: Lambert

Security Level: Low

~ 12 ~

A Note to Our Doctor The nurses took their tea in the rec room on the day that we explored the south wing. They've always measured their lives in teaspoons amid the shuffles and cries impatient. My sister and I, we slipped away, up stairs and southward wended. Motes danced toward the sunny windows and bounced off the glass toward bleach-white linoleum. The arcs of sunlight glowed on the tiles like the moon. Office doors lined up, tall and straight as oak trees or sequoias reaching past white ceil ing and up and up and up. Brass plates beamed brightly as sunlight dancing on rapids of the breaking bayou behind our house. We crept into your office to admire your flowers. Did you even know we were there? Deborah F.

~ 13 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Alice Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 01/16/1952 Admit Date: 02/01/1968 Readmitted: 07/05/2004 Discharge: 12/01/1972 Death: NO Patient History: Alice was admitted to the hospital originally to treat inversion. Her mother believed that she was "too friendly" with the other little girls in her neighborhood. Alice, for her part, believed that she was in the grips of "unnaturalness." While in Rosewood, it was discovered that Alice suffers from schizophrenia. Her relationship to Deborah. (who she met in Rosewood) seemed to give Alice the calm that simple medication could not. Unfortunately, Alice experienced a complete relapse after Deborah's death in 2004 and had to be readmitted. This poem was written in 1971, during Deborah's courtship of Alice. They often wrote companion poems together. Preliminary Diagnosis: Inversion, schizophrenia

Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, medication, art therapy from July 1970

Post Treatment Notes: Alice was released after homosexuality ceased to be a mental disorder. However, she suffered a complete mental breakdown after Deborah's death. She was readmitted, and has been steadily improving.

Primary Psychiatrist: G. Tandberg, M.D. (1968-1972), Y. Washington, M.D. (2004present) Primary Therapist: R. Barras, W. Martin Additional Case Workers: Lambert, Brenson, Woodlawn, Richard Security Level: Low

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: Alice is responding well to her second round of art therapy. She also started a large reading circle and a small gin rummy club in 2005.

~ 14 ~

A Communication Disorder O! What a postulate, azurine day! Today we explored the southern jungle sweet sister and I. We picked our way through the deep crystalline. All around us, the lobsters flitted, rejoicing in the sun. And o! How lovely the elephants bloomed yawning deep in the rudite, spiring sun! The jaundice orb muted the elephants' bright natural colors to plusky greys. O yes, we have seen your sober world of teaspoons, linoleum, and crocuses. How could anyone choose those things over the lurid beauty of blooming elephants? Alice A.

~ 15 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Caroline Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 04/02/1963 Admit Date: OUTPATIENT (Diagnosed 11/10/1995) Discharge: 09/18/1998 Death: NO Patient History: In spite of the morbid nature of Caroline's poetry, she was never an inpatient at Rosewood. She presented a history of pica, specifically trichotillomania. Caroline has never drowned a child, or had multiple personalities. When pressed about the identity of "Atalanta Pendragonne" and "Nny," she simply smiled and said, "They're people I once knew." With appropriate medication, Caroline made a full recovery. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, medication, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: Pica, spec. trichotillomania

Post Treatment Notes: Caroline has been prescribed a light sedative for her nervousness, which has reduced the trichotillomania to a manageable level.

Primary Psychiatrist: R. Kramer, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Outpatient Additional Notes: These poems are included in Caroline's first collection of poetry, Dark Scrub Woman. Caroline lives with her husband and two sons in Breaux Bridge, LA.

Primary Therapist: B. Brenson Additional Case Workers: Martin, Richard

Security Level: None ~ 16 ~

A Note from My Mother Your birth was the birth of an idea born squirming and redbut silentwith hair like blood in water and brass attitudes. My sweet child, who I pushed into this world wet and preciousmy red pearlI know you. You will grow into a squirming toddler, a red child, and finally, a silent adolescent. Adulthood is the loom empty, waiting for creationI know. Everything is empty as your newborn stomach. Everything blank as your sweet face. I created youand you, child, are blank. That is why I plunged you into the water basin by my bed until you died. Caroline W.

~ 17 ~

The Apple Speaks ~~for Atalanta Pendragonne, Nny, and others My mother, a Jew who celebrates christmas, put me in therapy before kindergarten. She said that I was an inconsistent child (Redundancy! Yes, that is a redundancybut please let me finish. ) Now I am twelve and still contrary. At once, I speak and write like an adult (Exactly how morbid would the comparable adult would have to be? (Irrelevant! Completely irrelevant!) But I also play with my dolls. (More tea, my dear? Yes. Mmm...lovely. I wonder why this tea always tastes like cherry Kool-Aid? Quiet, you.) I read at a college level (Anne Rice isnt college level. Anne Rice IS SO college level), but I still fear the dark space between my mattress and the floor. (Blame Alvin Schwartz. You know I do) Mostly, she wants me to "socialize" with the other children (And what am I? YOU don't countso don't even start.) Last week, I won the spelling bee. It was easy, but she was proud. (Weren't you, Mother?) Because it is something normal... This begs the question (The only question, really.) Does she keep me in therapy because she loves me truly LOVES me? Or is it because mental illness is usually inherited? Who are you treating, Mother? The apple or the tree? Caroline W. ~ 18 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Annie Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 11/05/1964 Admit Date: 01/24/1979 Discharge: 06/01/2000 Death: NO Patient History: Annie was admitted to program after attempting to take her own life and her childrens by driving her car into a shallow ravine. In the course of her therapy, her fathers infidelity came to light. It is believed that her own husbands affair prompted her to this extreme action. One of her children died in the ravine, the other survived with minor brain damage. Her now exhusband has custody of their surviving child. Most of her poetry is written in the voice of the betrayed child that she was. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, medication, art therapy from Jan. 1982, family therapy beginning in March 1990. Preliminary Diagnosis: Acute PTSD and post-partum depressionpossibly related to husbands infidelity.

Post Treatment Notes: In June of 2000, Annie was transferred to a halfway house, and then back into mainstream society. She had one minor relapse, during which she locked herself in her car for three and a half hours in August of 2003. Her prescriptions were immediately adjusted, and she has experienced no further problems.

Primary Psychiatrist: Y. Washington, M.D. Primary Therapist: Q. Swanson Additional Case Workers: Swain, Martin, Woodlawn Security Level: High

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: Annie wrote this poem, a villanelle, in 1999almost to the day of the twentieth anniversary of her daughters death.

~ 19 ~

On a Cold Summer Day When rain came down on a cold summer day in the car, outside the bar, five years old he left me there for a hot summer lay. Everything sticky and everything grey. The clouds hung down like upholstery, in folds, when the rain came down on a cold summer day. He cracked the window and told me to stay. I hated that car, that rustbucket Olds. He left me there for a hot summer lay. They went to the john. He wanted to play. The rust inched through her thin layer of gold when rain came down on a cold summer day. It was our "every-other Saturday." He had other plans 'cause I never told. He left me there for a hot summer lay. Daddy, my heroand her in the way Your blood inside me turned clear, wet, and cold. When the rain came down on a cold summer day, You left me there for a hot summer lay. Annie M.

~ 20 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Lucille Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 11/30/1967 Admit Date: 02/08/1998 Discharge: NO Death: 06/21/1999, suicide Patient History: Lucille was admitted to Rosewood following the slaying of her second husband. She was found not guilty of the murders of both of her husbands by reason of insanity, and sentenced to Rosewood for the duration of her life. A year later, she hung herself with scraps of her bedsheet. This poem was written near the anniversary of her first husbands death. She adamantly refused to write about her second husband's murder. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, medication, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: Psychopathy (antisocial personality disorder)

Post Treatment Notes: Lucille hung herself on the morning of June 21, 1999. Prior to her death, it was the opinion of her psychiatrist that she was really making progress.

Primary Psychiatrist: S. Liggett, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: Lucille's death was ruled a suicide by the coroner on June 30, 1999.

Primary Therapist: R. Kamenetz Additional Case Workers: Garret, Swain, Richard Security Level: High

~ 21 ~

To My Drowned Husband: A Retrospective Today June 22 Clear now, but thunderstorms in the afternoon I have spent time at the bottom of our swimming pool watching mercury bubbles flee to the surface. I wonder is this what it felt like when you died? Second Date December 5 Cold and rainy That seafood restaurant with the aquarium wall. Silent and blank, you picked at your food. You leaned over the table, away from the tank as the grey sharks trailed bubbles past your head. Are you afraid of the sharks? I asked. No, you said, the water. My father drowned when I was eight. Third date December 17 Chilly and clear Parked at the lake. Steam from our breath mixing with the neon over black water. So brave! I lead you, hand-in-hand to the end of the pier. You trembled, but only when we dropped hands to feed the ducks scraps of good cheap Chinese food. Eat the duck, you stupid duck, you laughed as they fought over the tender bits. Fifteenth date February 12 Indian summer Lake Ponchatrain Beach, escaping Mardi Gras. In your lap, your arms around me, our toes teasing that surf, we faced the grey swell. I kept my hands behind me, in your cut-off shorts working that swell. The rush of water. The rush of blood. You tensed with the grinding tide. Still, the waves beat like the pulse in your toes and you stickied my hands with your trust.

~ 22 ~

Just after I moved in with you May 8 Hot and cloudy A whole weekend jealously horded in Pensacola. Just us. Dog-swimming hesitantly through crystal waters always in view of the shore. I called to you and you swam to me, on the floating pier. I rewarded your bravery that night. We made love in that sticky sugar beach, until the police oh well. Five steps down that long silvering pier. Will you? So sudden. But again, you asked, Will you? The ring was pearl and opal. Our wedding September 18 Damp and windy In Bay St. Louis, on that brown beach with the gazebo your parents' brown beach. We were barefoot in the sand. The foam still upset you. So like the froth spilling out of your father's mouth. I dont think I couldve done this without you, you said. I shrugged. Maybe if you were Dennis Rodman. You took a flute of champagne for courage and walked down to the sea alone to poke at the froth with your toe. Our brothers built fires on the wet sand we leapt the flames and dove into black water. Our lease expired March 31 Drizzles Bought the house with the huge swimming pool. Eight feet of crystal waters, vertically. Like Pensacola, cement sugar beach. Chlorine is nature's spermicide, you laughed. No foam, just us. We swam every day. Neon noodles and inflatable loungers became your favorite marital aids. At night, the hot tub steamed over the porch windows, and melted daiquiris sat forgotten on the windowsill. First anniversary September 18 Strong gusts The water was an interrupted mirror in Mobile Bay and our boat was white with canary and crimson sails trumpetingout of sight of shore. You faced the wind from the prow. You were Poseidon. You were Leonardo Di Caprio. Never let go, Rose I shoved you in. Hair flying in the waves, you swam back to me. Whyd you let go, Rose? And you pulled me in. Our last night of drunken love-makingtequila kisses dissolving like sugar cubes into deepest sleep.

~ 23 ~

Dawn September 19 Still waters Inch thick chain looped around your ankle, padlocked, trailing two anchors everything so heavy. I had to throw the anchors overboard one at a time. Then you, tequila still on your snores. The water burned your nose sober. I could see it on your face. You understood. All crystal before you fell into the dark. This is my gift, all my work. Everything for that moment before the silence. You died a God, unafraid. Today June 22 Thunderstorms I will leave the pool. The sterile silver bubbles the dancing surface of water and light. I have met someone new. Nothing like you, darling, nowhere near your greatness. His name is Richard. He is afraid of heights. Lucille G.

~ 24 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Naomi Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 05/15/1977 Admit Date: OUTPATIENT (Diagnosed 07/02/1987) Discharge: LEFT PROGRAM1996 Death: NO Patient History: Naomi suffered from severe anxiety attacks from the age of ten. These attacks focused mainly around her inability to cope with her mother's overbearing presence and her own perfectionism. She mentioned that her mother had a peculiar hobby (which, from Naomi's description, bordered on obsession) Post Treatment Notes: Naomi left the with collecting oriental things. program in order to pursue her education. Her condition was improved with therapy, but medication was prescribed just before she left the program. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, art therapy, family therapy, medication Preliminary Diagnosis: Anxiety Disorder

Primary Psychiatrist: Y. Washington, M.D. In/Outpatient? Outpatient Additional Notes: Naomi graduated from college in1998, and continued to graduate school. She believes that she has made a full recovery.

Primary Therapist: O. Swain Additional Case Workers: Durbin, Martin, Woodlawn Security Level: None

~ 25 ~

To Mother, Regarding Your Sexuality When you saw her, twisting like a moth on the pin, kimono sleeves flaring over the pale arms of a white woman made up orientalwhen you bought your first piece of Asian kitsch soon aftersome tea set or the pale rice wine with the dancing girl miraculously insidewhen you filled your first china cabinet with those things fans, blown and painted eggs, jade buddhas, dolls when you dressed me, age four, in that white silk kimono with bright flowers and those wood shoeswhen you filled a room with bamboo screens painted with cranes and empty mountains, rice paper umbrellas and sake sets I wonder if you wanted to be her Butterflyor maybe, just to own her? Naomi R.

~ 26 ~

Three Years Waiting Without Tears She stands there as still as sticks wearing a faded kimono with an ancient obi unraveling it's scarlet silk in fringe. No undergarments. She waits wearing dents into her wood shoes. Three years ago, she killed herself. But still, she waits. The Benjamin Franklin has come and gone. Her curly haired blond son runs home everyday to the white woman that he was taught to call mother. But still, she waits pouring tea into a cracked cup. She walks through her house in her shoes, tracing the carvings on her crumbling dresser. There is nothing in the mirror anymore. She dashes her cup to the ground. The tea scalds her feet, but the cup does not break. Naomi R.

~ 27 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Shelby Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 11/15/1976 Admit Date: 02/08/1992 Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Shelby was sentenced to Rosewood after she brought a semiautomatic pistol to her workplace. Dissatisfied with her life, she meant to kill everyone in the office and herself, but only got as far as three of her coworkers and her immediate supervisor before the mail boy wrestled the gun away from her. On the stand, Shelby was remote and cold, according to one juror. Actually, she was experiencing a fugue. In spite of her perceived coldness in court, she managed to secure an insanity plea. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, art therapy, medication Preliminary Diagnosis: Dissociative identity disorder, with incidents of fugue

Post Treatment Notes: Shelby is medicated to keep the fugue under control. She spends much of her time painting or writing. This poem is one of many that she has written about the time leading up to her crime.

Primary Psychiatrist: R. Kramer, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: None of Shelbys therapists expect a full recovery. For now, she is content at Rosewood, where she is as active in the community as her security level allows.

Primary Therapist: Q. Swanson Additional Case Workers: Kamenetz, Brenson, Woodlawn, Richard Security Level: High

~ 28 ~

On Reading the Diary of Martha Ballard While Working for the Yellow Pages Sitting safe in my cubicle, Antiseptic, with carpet on the walls and under my feet and formica under my hands and glowing glass with plastic and wires before me My thoughts turnd to flax and fennel to manna and senna to vinegar and tansy to sweet camomile teas to balsam ointments rendered in the grease of pigs and sharp mustard seed that bleeds into honey for soar throat and canker rash. Her hands are gentle as warm as sunshine. Martha, you make me worry that I only heal phonebooks. Shelby L.

~ 29 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Ethel Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 07/08/1973 Admit Date: 03/25/2002 Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Female child molesters are extremely rare. Ethel is the only female child molester housed at Rosewood. She claims that she is a member of a plural system, meaning that more than one personality exists in her body. She argues that the personality that molested some twenty teenaged boys in the course of seven years was a teenaged girl, and doesnt seem to understand why she was prosecuted for doing what kids do. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, art therapy, medication Preliminary Diagnosis: Dissociative identity disorder, pedophilia

Post Treatment Notes: Ethel has done well in group and solo therapy. She believes that she is now in full control of her urges. She has been involved in a mutual and loving relationship with another plural for the last two years.

Primary Psychiatrist: R. Kramer, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: This poem is part of a larger art project that Ethel has embarked in with her life partner, Candice H. Candice is a painter who has also been diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder.

Primary Therapist: R. Kamenetz Additional Case Workers: Martin, Brenson, Woodlawn, Richard Security Level: High

~ 30 ~

Keep-Away on a Spring Afternoon How could I have forgotten that light slick of sweat smelling summer camellias blooming skin-deep and pouring in fat drops of silk running from bruised skies and torn clouds bleedingragged, screaming, feral, bestial, primitive. Children must be monsters of experience. Ethel Y.

~ 31 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Margaret Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 11/30/1979 Admit Date: OUTPATIENT (Diagnosed: 05/28/2005) Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Margaret came to Rosewood after the miscarriage of her first child. Subsequently, her marriage dissolved and she fell into a deep depression. At the height of her depression, Margaret said that she could feel her dead child's breath on her neck when she slept. After several months of therapy, Margaret is making excellent progress. She has begun dating, and entered a post-degree program. She hopes to be a high school teacher. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, medication, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: Acute depression linked to the miscarriage of her first child.

Post Treatment Notes: Margaret's condition has steadily improved since she entered the Rosewood outpatient program. She credits the Woodlawn Project, however, with giving her a new path in life.

Primary Psychiatrist: Y. Washington, M.D. In/Outpatient? Outpatient Additional Notes: Margaret wrote this poem shortly after entering the Woodlawn program. She would like the readers to know that she is now a committed non-smoker.

Primary Therapist: B. Brenson Additional Case Workers: Martin, Richard

Security Level: NONE

~ 32 ~

Second-Hand Habit I started smoking before I was born. Nicotine bittered the breast milk. My mother smoked on me greyed my blonde hair, saturated blankets and crib hung in my sleeping air. Got my first real cigarette at thirteen from Liza, my cousin (who had no excuseLizas mom quit when she had Lizas older sister.) I smoked three a day, a few puffs at a time, for that first week. Until the last cigarette from that first pack. Smoked it whole on the seventh day. Two weeks later, I didnt even cough. Liza bought me a cigarette holder with silver rhinestones and a ladys cigarette tin with yellow roses. Just like hers. It held fifteen Virginia Slims. Bitch Sticks. Well quit when were twenty, Liza swore. And she was right. For her, at least. She quit cold turkey and her mom bought her a car to celebrate. Bitch. But I kept smoking. Switched to Cowboy Killers by freshman year of college and called it a feminist choice. I met my husband on a smoke break after lunch. He smoked Black & Milds and always smelled sweet from them. Sophomore year, as that dreaded twentieth birthday loomed, I decided that I would stop when my children were bornput out that last butt in the afterbirth, with smoke hanging on my babys breath. I miscarried my first child a month ago. It wasnt expelled and began to rot. It spilled into my panties reeking of sweet yeast biscuits and onions and bad meat. Yesterday, they took it out of me, wrapped in layers of ruined muscle spotted with pus. No more babies. My husband brought me McDonalds. Said we can adopt. Thats his idea of supportive. He stepped out for a smoke when the doctor brought the video tape. Bastard.

~ 33 ~

I had to know. Had to see what they took out of me. No more babies ever. Got to get rid of that nursery. Get rid of the crib, the blankets, the toys. Everything reeks, I know it does, everything reeks of smoke. Margaret E.

~ 34 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Cindy Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 12/30/1980 Admit Date: 10/09/2000 Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: mild schizophrenia, dissociative disorder with incidents of fugue

Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Cindy was sentenced to Rosewood for the brutal murder of her girlfriend. She drugged her girlfriend and wrapped her in plastic before burying her alive. Apparently, Cindy discovered some infidelity on her girlfriends part. Cindy has no other incidences of violence on record. It is interesting to note that Cindys father accused her mother of being abusive when they divorced, in 1984.

Post Treatment Notes: Cindy maintains that she has no memory of her girlfriends death. She is not currently medicated, and conducts herself politely and competently.

Primary Psychiatrist: S. Liggett, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: Cindy wrote this poem almost a year after her admission to Rosewood. She does not remember writing it.

Primary Therapist: W. Martin Additional Case Workers: Kamenetz, Brenson, Richard Security Level: High

~ 35 ~

Storage Lovers wrap each other up in cellophane and pack themselves still warm away in styrofoam peanuts and carefully labeled cardboard boxes so they will not forget where they put each other. They keep themselves in dark, climate-controlled storage units until nostalgia creeps up like cloudless rain, unannounced. Theyll unwrap each other to remember how lightning once crackled whenever they touched. Cindy B.

~ 36 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Sarah Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 11/30/1982 Admit Date: 11/20/1997 Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, medication, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: Post traumatic stress disorder, depression, anxiety disorder

Discharge: 01/09/2003 Death: NO Patient History: Sarah was admitted to Rosewood following a string of suicide attempts. In Rosewood, she admitted that her stepfather had molested her from the age of four until just after her thirteenth birthday. Her poetry largely focuses on the South Louisiana landscape that she grew up in. She has not yet written about her experiences with her stepfather, but hopes to be able to one day.

Post Treatment Notes: Sarah continues her treatment as an outpatient.

Primary Psychiatrist: R. Kramer, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Both Additional Notes: Sarah recently married and is expecting her first child.

Primary Therapist: O. Swain, R. Kamenetz Additional Case Workers: Elvestrom, Woodlawn, Richard Security Level: Low

~ 37 ~

Andrew, With Blue Eyes Great grey howl a freight train full of pigs god's own fingers ripping leaves and bark laying bare the meat and bleeding sap fat drops of pitch hurled from the lips of tarry clouds vomited down some strange tantrum shingles flee before it, stumbling over each other furies of wind-mixed hail crystalline popcorn thrown down on the lawn, the roof. hoarfrost fists smash windows crush plastic birdbaths stab holes in canvas patio umbrella spinning in the wind whirligig dervish skipping down the street. Blue eyes The dervish tips folding over itself like a crumpled butterfly wet wings on black asphalt. The shingles look like flip-flops discarded in the road. Limbs hang down by threads of bark teetering overhead. The trees are still but the leaves still fall like green tears from blue eyes.

~ 38 ~

Under the weeping carport, with my eyes turned up to the place where the grey curtain fell I am eye-to-eye. He pants softly, warm breath ruffling my hair. His eyes are so blue, like periwinkle flowerblue over grey grass, grey street, grey water in grey ditches. Eyes up, searching his first hot tears his second tantrum splash my forehead and run down my cheeks. He takes a deep breath and screams. Sarah Z.

~ 39 ~

Dozing in the Car Windows down, the sunlight made inkblots through the trees splashed my eyelids with shadow puppets. (I saw bunny rabbits.) The wind flung my hair up and tossed it like pasta. Braided and unbraided it like a fidgety classmate on a rainy-day recess (back when my only virtue was that lovely, curly hair.) A knife through my nose, we hit a pocket of skunk stink. Then a wide field of wild onions and sweetgrass. It smelled like my fingers at a barbecue tar-colored onion sauce and feathers of mowed lawn. I liked the taste of salt on my tongue when we passed New Iberia. It made my eyes water my muscular sandpaper tried to smooth the lumpy skin on the roof of my mouth. Curled up in the trunk on a Honda hatchback ear pressed to the scratchy carpet, I heard the road. It hummed tunelessly, quietly the low blue buzz of a fly. But over the water, the bridges sang. Sarah Z.

~ 40 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Penelope Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 01/07/1983 Admit Date: OUTPATIENT (Diagnosed: 10/10/1999) Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Penny entered the outpatient program after she attempted to cut her wrists in late 1999. The fall season has always been difficult for her because both her mother and her grandmother committed suicide in October. She, unfortunately, discovered both bodies. Her grandmother gassed herself in the oven rather than face the indignity of a lingering death of leukemia. Her mother shot herself when Pennys father announced that he intended to file for divorce. Penny was quickly diagnosed with seasonal depression, which was just beginning to be recognized by mental health professionals as a legitimate disorder. Primary Psychiatrist: S. Liggett, M.D. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, medication, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: Seasonal depression

Post Treatment Notes: Penny completed her outpatient treatment in 2002. She went on to study literature at LSU, and obtained her degree in 2006. She is currently pursuing a Masters degree in Iowa, focusing on Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and Emily Dickenson.

In/Outpatient? Outpatient Additional Notes: These poems, companion pieces, illustrate Pennys struggles with seasonal depression.

Primary Therapist: W. Martin Additional Case Workers: Brenson, Richard Security Level: NONE

~ 41 ~

Sprung Our fountain was tinted! The flat, shattered pigment fled the spout and frothed, spilling down the cement lips. Little bits of veined glass that bobbed in the pebbly basin cast their jittery shadows. That raw color flowed like molten crayons from the backlit canopy. It was paint on the concrete on the college girls who flicked their wrists but could not remove the splotches. It was a violent green a brutal, dewy green. Summer coleslaw green! That verdant, lively green scribbled around graves glaring and garish against somber limestone. Penny Y.

~ 42 ~

Fallen The sky is a steel mixing bowl upside-down with hard little tears clinging. Oh how the leaves silver in the wind then green again in a patch of shade. The air is variegated marble--cold from passed rain. No color but grey. Not gray, but grey. The color of fences forgotten. The color of dead fish. The college girls wear grey and call it "charcoal" or "dove." They grey their coffee with powdered milk and trendy raw sugar. The professors grow greyer every year. The fountain lays still and the pigeons quiet. Nothing moves but the wind. The world is a stone graveyard, carved under a steel bowl. A grey yard waiting for white. Penny Y.

~ 43 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Ginger Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 01/18/1983 Admit Date: OUTPATIENT (Diagnosed: 06/04/2003) Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Ginger entered outpatient care to treat her depression. She had a very difficult childhood, including a very hostile relationship with her mother and her fathers murder in 1996. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, family therapy, medication, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: chronic depression

Post Treatment Notes: Ginger says that working out her feelings in poetry has helped to improve her life dramatically. She now holds a weekly poetry circle in her home. She continues outpatient treatment, and only rarely has relapses.

Primary Psychiatrist: Y. Washington, M.D. In/Outpatient? Outpatient Additional Notes: Ginger is pleased to announce that she will be getting married this summer, to her college sweetheart, Scot.

Primary Therapist: B. Brenson Additional Case Workers: Swanson, Richard Security Level: None

~ 44 ~

On My Murdered Father I barely knew you, didnt I? Your whiskers poked through your skin like wax rolled in sand and when you grew out your beard it felt like a petting zoo and your kisses itched. You smelled of stale cigarettes and grease and Old Spice sour and sweet like cocoa powder and sharp like the limburger (that disgusting cheese) that only you liked. You gave me sticky-sweet hard candies that cling to the tongue and stick to the teeth melting in beads of syrup do you remember the cinnamon disks? You ambled, disjointed, like the oil horses the boys ride every fall swinging like a broken windmill Mimi called you Grace until the day she died. You talked gravelly (with diesel engine throat) voice caught and whined when it got too cold (too many years of Camels) but you laughed deep like that Harley (you never bought) and sang like an air wrench. Ginger P.

~ 45 ~

Waiting for WordMy Mother's Heart Attack A dandelion in glass, suspended I wait for distended breath to scatter to shatter stagger breaths in beads of shine sliding through that thick medium choking on fluff, on white nothing. I wait for nothing pale death on pale horse puffy-faced dandelion. I wait for breath for long, dry drags that smell of plastic and ether seasoned with beta-blockers crusted with aspirin, as antiseptic and fresh as hospital linens, and colorless as death clock dandelion. Ginger P.

~ 46 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Jessica Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 09/06/1984 Admit Date: 03/11/2002 Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, medication, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: antisocial personality disorder, schizophrenia

Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Jesse sold her kidney to an Argentinean drug lord two months before she was admitted to Rosewood. Jesse was trying to sell a lobe of her liver to a millionaire in Austria when her mother had her declared legally insane. Her mother placed her in Rosewood, where an underlying case of APD and moderate schizophrenia were promptly diagnosed.

Post Treatment Notes: Jesse continues to improve. She still believes that the sale of body parts should be legal, but now accepts the illegality of her actions. She says that she feels remorseful that she broke the law, but does not miss her kidney.

Primary Psychiatrist: Y. Washington, M.D. In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: This is the first poem that Jesse wrote about the sale of her kidney. She is currently working on a series of poems about, as she puts it, disposable body parts.

Primary Therapist: W. Martin Additional Case Workers: Kamenetz, Brenson, Richard Security Level: Low

~ 47 ~

On Capitalism The first currency wasn't cash or coins, gold or salt. It was teeth. Human teeth. So the wealthy were either ruthless, or toothless. My teeth went to the Tooth Fairy$1 each. I sold my plasma all through undergrad$25 a pint. My hair is black gold, I sold it twice$100 per foot. Small stuff. No real money in it. But a kidney a pound of flesh Hell, that could pay my college loans. Two kidneys are redundant. Besides, nobody in my family has ever died of bad piss. I put my kidney on e-Bay. You mightve seen it. Description of Item: 1 healthy kidney Donor is in early twenties, in good health. No family history of kidney disease. Blood type 0 negativeuniversal donor. Lower risk of rejection. Buyer locates facility for transplant. Buyer pays all travel, hospital, and other fees. The bids went up to $1.5 million before they pulled it off the site. Don't look at me like that. It's not like it's a lung or an egg. It's not like I'm a whore. It's just a kidney.

~ 48 ~

The high-bidder called me later. Flew us out to Argentina. He had a good doctor and Argentina isnt like America. The government there subsidizes plastic surgery to win beauty contests. Theyve got bigger problems than me and my kidney. And he talked to me on the flight about money, legal things the Red Sox. I could understand him a true capitalist. Gave me a little over $3 million. Cash. No, it doesn't bother me that he's a drug dealer. Why should it? There's only ruthless and toothless out there. I made my choice I still got my teeth. Besides, he likes the Red Sox. He can't be that bad. Jesse M.

~ 49 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Faith Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 01/29/1986 Admit Date: OUTPATIENT (Diagnosed: 04/28/2004) Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Faith was placed in the outpatient program as a condition of her ability to graduate from her high school. She stalked a number of girls by phone and on the internet. She would leave threatening messages on their answering machines or email accounts. While she never actually hurt one of the girls, her school felt that she needed counseling. An official told Faiths mother that he didnt want another Columbine. Faith was soon diagnosed with passive-aggressive personality disorder. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: passive-aggressive personality disorder

Post Treatment Notes: Faith has shown great progress since being admitted to the outpatient program. She has never required. She continues to have regular therapy sessions. Faith reports that art therapy changed her life. She is now a student in the Nicholls State University English program.

Primary Psychiatrist: R. Kramer, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Outpatient Additional Notes: Faith often writes poetry about the things that anger her. This is one such poem, describing a long car trip with a cousin of her fianc.

Primary Therapist: W. Martin Additional Case Workers: Brenson, Richard Security Level: None

~ 50 ~

Driving with Pipsy If I push myself back into my chair if she keeps talking about people I dont know then she will become a jet engine blindingly loud, at first then a buzz at the back of my head, mosquito annoying, and then gone. I cling to the one-in-amillion-billion-trillion chance that the glue that holds my molecules together will fail and I will fall back behind the seat behind the car and splash into the road, scream into trees, and fade into dandelions. Faith R.

~ 51 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Regina Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 04/30/1985 Admit Date: 04/19/2004 Discharge: 12/04/2005 Death: NO Patient History: Reginas teachers became concerned because of her increasingly erratic behavior. In April, she threw herself into the broken showers at her high school (which were being used as storage) and turned on all the spigots full blast. Her gym teacher discovered her hours later. The school insisted that Reginas mother seek treatment for her. Soon after admission to Rosewood, Regina admitted that her father and brother had been abusing her sexually since the age of four, apparently without each other knowing. Her father forced her to have an illegal abortion in March of 2004. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: post traumatic stress disorder, schizophrenia

Post Treatment Notes: Reginas brother was arrested and tried for sexual assault in 2004. Her father is deceased. Regina is now an English student at Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. She is also an active member of the local poetry community, and gave several readings last year. Regina is one of the primary organizers of Slammin and Glammin, an all-female poetry slam competition. She continues to meet with her therapist once a month.

Primary Psychiatrist: Y. Washington, M.D. In/Outpatient? Both Additional Notes: Since becoming a part of the Woodlawn program, Regina has become on of the up-and-coming voices of urban poetry. Her first chapbook, How to Beat the Metal Detector, won the 2005 Horace Cheever Award for Outstanding First Chapbook.

Primary Therapist: R. Kamenetz Additional Case Workers: Brenson, Martin, Richard Security Level: Low

~ 52 ~

Ghetto Haiku in the burned-out church the body of christ is crank dried blood stained his hands steel bars etched safety sigils on glass to ward off graffiti hexes pride smelled of soap and fresh laundry and screams in clean sneakers and cornrows shes puckered where the stuffing sprays out of her head fizzed-out, greased-back weave cinnamon spice heat shimmers above her heavy brown stickybun breasts dewy fog rolls in coating us all in drops of refreshing sewage sulfur lights shine dim like drops of amber leaking sap on onyx streets Regina W.

~ 53 ~

Sulfur Lamps Midnight Sun Beacon of Hope Dawns Early Light Pot of Gold pot of piss a cast iron skillet sky with egg yolks inside unbroken, raw, gleaming stale lemon drops soured tacky orange rhinestones japaneseshaped like lemons but colored wrong road paint reflected and spewing rust, bleeding kool aid orangey-orange froot loops on shiny black linoleum a giant false suntan slowly washing away turning steel poles into day-old golden french-fries the only eyes left blind for the fog open sores oozing light melting glow over the trees Regina W.

~ 54 ~

Urban Springtime Parking Lot When the moon is full-ripe, and the light is the soft-lit silver that turns black to blue when the air is cool, wet linen laying damp kisses on my skin the jasmine opens, perfuming the half-dark. Ghostly carpenter bees grey-on-black in silver light slide into each other slip sideways between soft jasmine lips kamikaze hockey pucks rolling over the corrugated carport. Tangled black vines with pink flowers flaring like skyward poodle skirts slowly eat the banal carport. Steel planes and angles blunted in black leaves softened in pink petals corners dulled by yellow spring flushed pink by soft-lit moon. Regina W.

~ 55 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Olive Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 09/13/1978 Admit Date: 12/01/2004 Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Olive, who had a happy and fulfilling life as a copy-editor at the Times Picayune, left Louisiana to pursue a Masters degree at the University of Texas, in Austin. Less than a month after leaving home, she returned, extremely depressed. She hates Texas with a passion, declaring the people banal and the environment cancerous. She was hospitalized at her parents insistence because she could not shake her depression, even home in Louisiana. She made one suicide attempt, overdosing on medication prescribed for her mothers rheuthmatic arthritis. She has since been stabilized. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, medication, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: chronic depression

Post Treatment Notes: Olive remains stable and devotes much of her time in Rosewood to the composition of her first book of poetry. Tentatively titled, And It Rains Whiskey There, Too, Olive anticipates her first book to be ready for print in 2007.

Primary Psychiatrist: S. Liggett, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Both Additional Notes: Olive and Regina W. are planning on a collaborative work of fiction about the adventures of a Katrina-displaced ghetto girl in Dallas. Regina still visits Olive on Wednesdays to write.

Primary Therapist: R. Kamenetz Additional Case Workers: Brenson, Martin, Richard Security Level: Low

~ 56 ~

The Austin Fugue Dark Mother with scissors I worship at evening I worship at midday and morning I worship at night I worship and worship--I am a character in a book (not the main character) and when he (or is it she) is not around the others shuffle like meat puppets disjointed shambling with eyes of milky glass, dull, moth-eaten, and empty they shuffle. Dark Mother with scissors I worship at evening I worship at midday and morning I worship at night I worship and worship-I live in a book, o Mother, with the meat puppets and they snap, o how they snap when the main character arrives. They dance. They dance at evening They dance at midday and morning they dance at night They dance and I worship-It is the corpse-dance from Thriller, but the music is Smooth Criminal because the main character likes that song better. They dance and I worship because that is all we know. And they drop like puppets made of meat when the main character leaves. And I am alone. Dark Mother I worship the blood on sharp blades Sharp, but not cruel. We will call it "necessary." Dark Mother with wet blades I worship at evening I worship at midday and morning I worship at night I worship and worship--The meat puppets dangle and dance as Alien Ant Farm shuffles on iPod. She is a girl, the main character is a girl. Her name is not Annie--her name is Mary Sue and she bleeds on dancing blades. Do not snip, Dark Mother, I pray do not snip! Open your scissors and saw back and forth as the meat puppets dance.

~ 57 ~

Dark Mother, you bleed her. You bleed her at evening You bleed her at midday and morning you bleed her at night You bleed her and bleed her-The meat puppets dance. I alone worship. It is all we know. Olive V.

~ 58 ~

Austin-Aggressive I have been salting this bad earth. With every meal at some chain restaurant (because I am poor and I hate that hot, cramped, Metropolitan kitchen) I rip open a tiny salt packet from Wendy's or Jack-in-the-Box and pour it over a bush, tree roots, the thin brown grass around a tired, bent stop sign. The people here are tired, bent stop signs-I salt them, too. I dump salt from Burger King on the sandstone stoops of buildings, and on sedans. I fling Chik-Fil-A salt on the pigeons that scrap over waffle fries and strut. There are not enough salt packets and fries don't come with Napalm--so, please Katrina, if you have a sister-I know a great place to eat. Olive V.

~ 59 ~

Patient File Name: CLASSIFIED, Ashley Patient Number: CLASSIFIED DOB: 06/02/1985 Admit Date: 04/19/2005 Discharge: NO Death: NO Patient History: Ashley was admitted to Rosewood following an unfortunate incident at her work. She was a waitress at Tims, a popular greasy spoon in Metairie, Louisiana. She attacked a customer, who was so surprised by her assault that he dropped dead of a heart attack. She accused him of sexual harassment during her trial. Her performance on the stand called her sanity into question. Consequently, she was remanded to Rosewood to serve her sentence. Treatment Notes: solo therapy, group therapy, art therapy Preliminary Diagnosis: antisocial personality disorder, with aggressive features

Post Treatment Notes: Ashley continues her treatment at Rosewood. She refuses to acknowledge any remorse for her crime. She says, The motherfucker deserved it, and if I see him in Hell, Ill fucking break my foot off in his ass.

Primary Psychiatrist: S. Liggett, M.D.

In/Outpatient? Inpatient Additional Notes: This is Ashleys first and only foray into writing therapy. She usually paints and sculpts, but her artwork is often too graphic for display.

Primary Therapist: R. Kamenetz Additional Case Workers: Martin, Richard Security Level: High

~ 60 ~

Gratuity It was Mardi Gras MondayLundi Grasand it was busy. I work at Tims. Its a shithole. But its a job. And I should be grateful. My momma aint even got a job no more. Laid off. Fuck that. So the regulars are there. College girls up from LSU with skinny legs and zebra hair in the front booth. The old homo and the tan boy that lights his big stinky smokes in the corner of smoking. The dykes are in the back of non-smoking. Theyre my dykes. They listen to me bitch about work and they always tip good. Dolores at the counter, talkin trash about her neighbors kid. (He in jail now and his baby-momma took up with the trash man. Steady pay, smart girl, mmm-hmm, cher.) In other words, its like every other Mondayexcept busy. The cook never rings the goddamn bell so I dont know when my fuckin orders up. I got whatever flu is goin around because I sat my runny-nosed nephew for my sister last night. So Im dropsy and shit from the Sudafed. Aint had a smoke in eight hours. Been here goin on twelve. Aint had lunch. Im startin to get that twitch on my left eye and Eileen can do the bathrooms her own damn self. I aint her slave. He walked in, caught Angelas eye, but she went to the back. She got the asthma bad and we aint had air for like a week now. So anytime someone come in that she dont like, she go to the freezer, all wheezin and crap. Thats some shit, man. Cause I know she was hotboxin a fuckin Parliament not fifteen minutes ago. Goddamn cheap smokes. I know why she did it. We all hate this motherfucker. Especially me. He always wears the same tweed suit with those stupid patches on the elbows. (And you know hes only wearing it to look smart. He teaches at Delgado, for chrissake.) Hes got a bad case of face pubes, which makes me wonder what hes trying to cover up. His glasses are always lopsided, and he always smells like cabbage and his stank smokes. But all THAT would be okay if he didnt send back every order cause the cook cant speak enough English to know how pink to make the damn meat. But THAT would be okay if he didnt expect to be comped cause Jose cant do med-rare. But THAT would be okay if he didnt blow his stanky cigar smoke in my face when he ordered. But THAT would be okay if he didnt touch my fucking ass every time I pass his table. But THAT would be okay if he didnt tip me with pocket change. It is NEVER okay to tip less than fifteen percentunderstand? I got my twitch goin when he ordersteak medium rare, eggs over easy, toast and coffee, both black. Yeah, I got it. Fucktard. Okay, I didnt call him a fucktard. He had his hand spread out on the table, stumpy-ass fingers. I saw the fork there and I wanted to go all Manson-family on him. Just stick a fork in the motherfuckers hand and say I am fucking done with you. But I didnt. So I had a spoonful of Oreo crumbs when I passed it on the sidebar. Jose doesnt ring the damn bell. Doesnt like the way it sounds. I get the college girls their dessert. I used the same spoon that I ate Oreos with to make their sundae. I hope you all get my flu and die. Suffer bitches, and tip more than five percent. Especially if youre gonna make me split the check eight ways. Cunts. ~ 61 ~

Then I remember the steak-and-eggs. Its fucking cold. Thanks Jose. And I can see that the damn steak is well. Not medium. Not med-well. Fucking well. I usually just hand it back. Tell Jose, More pink, and ring the damn bell. Eileen says dont do that anymore. Its wasteful. The customer might not send it back. What a load of shit. The customer didnt pay for cold food and a bad steak. But they might not complain because theyre too nice. So fuck that. But I aint getting fired, and I dont even like this guy. So I bring him the food. Its cold, he says. And the steaks overdone. So I bring it back to Jose, and call him a fucktard. Then I ring up Angelas table. Bunch of tourists. At least they tipin cash. And I sure as hell aint given Angela a dime. Shes still hiding in the freezer. I start my sidebar. Got to leave everything pretty for Alex. His shifts in a half-an-hour, and I can go home, sleep. So Im cutting strawberries. I hate the strawberries. They slip and I cut myself. Every time. The dykes sit near the bar. So Im cuttin and Im bitchin and Im twitchin. I just want a nap before Zulu, for chrissakes. And they listen and nod. The strawberry slips, I cut myself. And I cuss. Eileen hears and I know shes gonna cream me as soon as I get back to the register. Fuck it, Im bleeding. So I go to the back and get a band-aid. My orders up. Jose didnt ring the bell. I take it to the guy, who thanks me and slaps my butt to send me on my way. Twitch. Eileen calls me over to register, so I cant even bitch to my dykes. Shes on the phone. She covers the receiver and says Alex is on the line, he cant come in. His babys sick. Yeah, Im sure. The only thing his babys got is Zuluitis. Fucking bitch is bailing on me so he can go to the parades. You have to stay until eight, Eileen says. I remind her that Ive been here since four this morning, but I know it wont do any good at all. I dont want to get fired, and they know it. So Ill stay. Fuck. There goes my Zulu coconut. And theres the motherfucker, waving me back to the table. Turns out the eggs are overdone. Fuck, thats never happened. And its cold. So I call Jose a fucktard again and tell him to get it right this time and ring the damn bell. Back to the strawberries. Im still bleeding a little, but I dont care. Ill rinse em. My dykes are quiet. They stay quiet. So I start bitching anyways. Cut myself again. Damn. One of the dykes tells me that my orders up. I go to the little window and throw the bell at Jose. It hits him square in the back of the head. Eileen pretends she didnt see it and goes to ring up the homos. Angela seats seven ripped guys dressed as sailors. Why are all the hot guys in New Orleans gay? I get the steak-and-eggs to the table, and cabbage man says they look alright, but hell expect to be comped for the inconvenience. Motherfucker. Doesnt he know that shit like that comes out of my pay? ~ 62 ~

And everything is quiet for the next half an hour. I fill drinks. I serve the eight emo kids some ice cream and water. My dykes keep talking. I know theyre killing time until Zulu. They say theyll get me a coconut. That makes me happy. Motherfucker waits at his table for the check. He cant even be bothered with going to the register. He lights up. He signs it. He gives it back to meno tipand breathes a fog of stank around my face. But I just smile, because I know hell leave. And he doesbut he doesnt even leave a dime on the tablecloth for me. I caught him halfway to the door. I told him he forgot to tip. Eileen was on the other side of the restaurant and really, I could care less anyway. He said he wasnt going to tip me for two bad plates. Twitch. But if you wanna earn some easy money, he said, and he touched my hair. Twitch. Mother. Twitch. Fucker. Twitch twitch. So I grabbed the chair right next to me and hit him with it. He went down pretty easy. I guess teaching at Delgado dont make for much in the way of muscles and them stank smokes aint good for reflexes, neither. I kicked him in his fool head a couple of timeshard as I could. I wasnt wearing my good boots, just Keds, but I could see the bruises welling up under his liver spots. He still had his cigar in his stupid teeth, which surprised the hell outta me. He must have bit down hard on it when he fell. So I yanked it out his mouth and stubbed it out on his forehead. Then I kicked him some more. He wasnt moving, so I whipped out the pen I take down orders with, and wrote: 15% FUCKTARD around the burn on his forehead. I stomped on the bridge of his glasses. The glasses snapped in half and fell off his face. I finished it by putting my pen right through his neck. It didnt bleed anymore than I did when I cut my hand. That kinda surprised me. But I found out later that he died of a heart attack before I even hit him with the chair. And that really pissed me off too, becausebecauseits just one more thing he didnt give me, you know? So I took a hundred out of his wallet and dropped my apron and went to Zulu. I didnt get a coconut, and I got arrested that night. They brought me here, and its nice, I guess. But heres the best thing. Like a week later, I get this box. Its from two chicks. I dont know the names, and Im like, what the fuck? And then I open it and its a Zulu coconut, smiling at me. So the moral of the story is this: God bless the dykes, and everybody tip your fucking servers.

~ 63 ~

To end this collection, we would like to include one of Elizabeth Woodlawns own poems. This poem was first published in The Opal Review, and then in her third book, Wednesdays Child. It is reprinted here with Miss Woodlawns kind permission. The Baker Farm There was a consensus between the last wet hoof and the clinging grass. The chickens knew as they were crated up. The last tool knew that it would never again feel the bite of leather, nor taste the oil. The rust knew as it ate benignly at the tire-less farm truck. Those creviced hands knew, from calloused tips to potato knuckles, to leather gloves that bunched at the wrists. The sun knew as it dipped down to break the earth because he can only watch television and drool from the slack side of his mouth. The stars are too close to miss it. She crochets constantly now, an afghan for the coming winter.

The Voices of Rosewood is entirely a work of fiction. All poems and patient files are the work of Stephanie De Haven. More of her work can be found at http://snuffyart.livejournal.com.

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