Always with this smashing, muddy river. And my 
child vexed. The white sky her screams crested. The 
white coats rounding the kid wing. Where histories 
were charted, looks gauged. Under my touch. 
Scrolled symptoms and elevators. Chimes. A drip 
was hung. A bed opened, a gown. In a room with a 
magic mural. One wand sent forth waves of sound 
her tissues made bounce. Unheard echoes went. In 
or out of view. Bats in the mural.

Bedrails. Yet her roiling. Not to be contained. We 
were spoken with. I wanted any edge to punch 
through. There was none. No night, no shrinking, 
no edifice, none. Doorframe. I went wooden too. All 
call buttons called. Wood still feels. Cut so. I forgot 
our stories.

Not I. Sang the moon in the mural. Sang the witch. 
Sang the fish. Until rivers rose. And a piece of water 
turned back into a girl chin to chest curled into 
herself.

Listen. The girl sings exultant songs from our house 
by the river that spills over walls into dreams.