A Danger to Ourselves

We arrive fighting. Our father says he can’t loan us any more money; our sister says it’s time. Our husband drags us from the car and through a haze of carbon monoxide smoke. Our girlfriend cuts us down. Our landlord says we can’t flood the bathtub, pull the fire alarm, or jump out of the bushes—we’re scaring the other tenants. The state trooper pulls us over. Driving like this is against the law. So is panhandling in the skyway. So is baptizing your children in the Mississippi. The barista says we can’t take up a table; the librarian orders us out of the stacks. We apologize. We didn’t realize we were talking to ourselves. Our roommate turns us on our side. Our neighbor wakes us from a nap in the snow. Our friends won’t invite us for dinner, or let us crash on their couch—not when we’re like this. We lean over the rail of the Washington Avenue Bridge, mesmerized by the drop. They take us to the county psychiatric ward. The doors are thick and made of metal and lock behind us automatically. We’re told it’s okay to eat; the food isn’t poisoned. Neither is the water. Still, we only ingest things that come in sealed packages: saltines, peanut butter, apple juice with a foil cover. Our hold papers are delivered with a doctor’s signature testifying we’re a danger to ourselves or someone else. They confiscate our shoes, razor, perfume. They cut the string from our hoodie. We look, but there’s nothing sharp to be found. The bathroom mirror is polished metal, our reflection dusky and warped. We’re put to bed on a narrow cot. There are tests. Blood. Urine. The Beck Depression Inventory. The Millon. Neuropsych testing. Rorschach blots. It’s a baby. A man. An elephant. It’s a clone. It’s a clone. That one, too, it’s a clone. We take the MMPI, all 567 questions. Do you like mechanics magazines? Are you easily awakened by noise? Do you sometimes feel like there’s a tight band wrapped around your head? Was your father a good man? Do you feel like smashing things? True false, true false, true true, false. We color the bubbles in a pattern: Frankenstein’s face with a diagonal scar. Here you go, doc. It’s night. We’re awake. Every surface is fascinating and requires cleaning. When we ask the night nurse for a bucket and mop, he says absolutely not. He knows us from the last time, is weary of our face. We alphabetize the measly library of romance and science fiction, water the