Talisman

He wears a white Christian Dior robe and gold brocade slippers
When he leaves his room each night
His crisply ironed pajamas
Are sent to the Forensic Unit
Wrapped in light brown parcel paper
By his mother who lives in
New York, New York

He carries a red bible bound in soft Italian leather
Holds it like a talisman tightly against his heart
Walks proudly, head held high
To a couch across from the double locked doors
At the end of the hall
Where he reads in the half light
From exactly three am until five after four

Told me once that he attaches one dark desire to the end of every sentence
Imagines that it transcends space and time
Takes his sins somewhere else
As if he could tie heinous crimes to the tail of a helium balloon
And watch it float away
Until it gets so small it becomes a simple dot
Instead of a serious rift in his psyche

He believes he is able to ensure the demise of his illness
By the unaltered routine of this nocturnal ritual
“Aha!” He says to me each night, as he returns to his room,
“Checkmate!”
But I do not trust his talisman
Even when combined with sentences of comfort
Every fourth Thursday I give him his anti-psychotic injection

Afterwards, I lean my forehead against the cool metal cabinet in the med room
And hold my breath for a moment, in memory of the five women
Who were murdered in his bed thirty years ago
Four weeks apart, between the first flower of springtime
And the drifting down of autumn leaves
His red bible bound in soft Italian leather
A silent witness on the nightstand beside him

Joy Arnett
Salem, Or. 5/2007