Locked in the psychiatric ward
the patients may or may not
see Christmas lights this year,
or get to brush their hair,
but one has seen stigmata
on her toes.

She says alien life forms
drew wavy brown lines
on broccoli stems in her lunch
left on the floor of her room
where they allow nothing
that can be thrown.

She offers me the broccoli,
but I won’t eat it either.

When I won’t get her out of there,
she tells me who I am
with a streak of righteousness:
someone who is always busy
doing nothing of significance.

A priest walks through
my fevered dreams,
past bright colored shirts
laid on the floor like lights
ready to be strung,
wipes his runny nose.
Even the holy are ill
during Advent this year.

In the setting sun, power lines
like strings of Christmas lights
shine on a hand-lettered sign
tossed onto a snowbank,
“Seeking someone who knows me”.


Author’s Bio

Meg Freer grew up in Montana and lives in Kingston, Ontario, where she teaches piano, enjoys the outdoors year-round, and wishes she had more time for writing poetry. Her writing has won awards and has been published in various journals. In 2017 she attended the Summer Literary Seminars in Tbilisi.