by Mary Christine Delea
I was the only one on the tour, and who could blame the rest
of humanity? Tours were by appointment only, and when I called,
the woman on the other end was surprised. Then suspicious.
I made an appointment anyway.
A city of the ill, complete with barber shop, post office, dentist,
gymnasium, more. Signs still up, in-take forms on display:
decades of husbands and fathers committing women for sadness,
gloom, rebellious sprits, refusing to marry or bear children,
liking sex. The male patients, more of a hodgepodge: not liking sex,
murder, too friendly with other men, hearing voices, peering in windows,
having sex with farm animals, uncontrollable rage. Photographs
were next, pinned under glass onto the walls: posed shots of staff,
and candids of patients at dances. Then actual pieces left behind.
Some silverware. A scarf. Stethoscope. A nurse’s uniform.
Pill bottles. A gurney with restraints. Shock treatment caps.
Then the surprise ending: before this museum, government offices,
and buildings falling into decay, before the hospital of the damned,
all those buildings had once held plantation slaves. Two centuries
of rage and gloom, abuse and torture, some of it encased in glass.
Some of it only visible on a map near an exit.
About the Author:
Mary Christine Delea has a Ph.D. in English/Creative Writing from the University of North Dakota. She is the author of the full-length poetry collection, The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky, and 3 chapbooks. Her website, mchristinedelea.com, includes a blog where she posts prompts and poems she loves. She also has a Substack newsletter, Peeled Citrus Prompts, where she posts creativity prompts three times a week. Delea currently volunteers for various nonprofit organizations, mostly involving teaching, reading to others, baking, transporting cats, and helping children prepare for emergencies.