Under the tree that whistles
lies a sharp and pointed thistle,
that pokes and prods
whenever I intend to leave this little spot under the whistling tree.
A bunny hops,
with four eyes and two legs,
and I poke it with a peg,
to shoo it away.
I hear you call my name
as a hundred others do,
and I hear curses whispered,
apparently from me to you.
They say I’ve infected you, injected you,
and I must run away;
there’s no time for play under this whistling tree today.
They get louder and louder and I don’t know what to do
so I get up and run, I run right past you.
I’m in danger, can’t you see?
My shadow senses it and bolts ahead of me,
leaving me unprotected.
I stop and shiver, cry and quiver,
as I lose myself within the night.
There’s no coming back and you’ve gone,
and the whistling tree seeks revenge.
I go roughly into that good night,
beaten and scarred,
feathered and tarred,
and you are there beneath the whistling tree with angel wings
out of my reach.
I lay on the ground beneath the spotlight
curled with my knees to my chest,
my best defense
against the dark arts.
You fly to heaven and I am alone, truly alone,
comforted by the whistling tree.
I think what’s ironic about this poem is that, to me, my experience with psychosis has been poetry. It’s been a beautiful, terrifying, cold dance with the devil who is, as he is in the Bible, an angel.