fiction, poetry & more

COTTONWOOD WARD,
PONTIAC STATE HOSPITAL

COTTONWOOD WARD, PONTIAC STATE HOSPITAL

 by Michelle Morouse

I see them in a rhapsody, filtered through my then naiveté, and the aperture

of time. They were little arsonists all, aged five to eleven, deemed

too dangerous for foster care.

 

I remember wispy blond Jimmy, blue eyes wide, shrugging, Me don’t got no

underwears, until we found urine crusted pairs under his mattress.

 

Joey, taped glasses always smudged and askew, sashayed through the lunchroom

singing Boop de doop curls.

 

Solid seven-year-old Robert, who tackled rather than hugged me, with his sweet

voice and serious brown eyes, remained my favorite even after the day his incisors

clamped down on my thumb.

 

A smirk flashed over the face of smart-ass Tommy’s mother when we told her

The kids started a stealing club and your son was the ringleader.

 

I remember the stomp, stomp, clap, stomp, stomp, clap, as their voices

filled the TV room, singing We will, we will, rock you! at the top of their lungs.

 

They’re well into middle age now. Dare I hope

that they’re all still alive, that they’re healthy,

 

that they’ve forged the families

that they longed for then?

I see them in a rhapsody, filtered through my then naiveté, and the aperture
of time. They were little arsonists all, aged five to eleven, deemed
too dangerous for foster care.

I remember wispy blond Jimmy, blue eyes wide, shrugging, Me don’t got no
underwears, until we found urine crusted pairs under his mattress.

Joey, taped glasses always smudged and askew, sashayed through the lunchroom
singing Boop de doop curls.

Solid seven-year-old Robert, who tackled rather than hugged me, with his sweet
voice and serious brown eyes, remained my favorite even after the day his incisors
clamped down on my thumb.

A smirk flashed over the face of smart-ass Tommy’s mother when we told her
The kids started a stealing club and your son was the ringleader.

I remember the stomp, stomp, clap, stomp, stomp, clap, as their voices
filled the TV room, singing We will, we will, rock you! at the top of their lungs.

They’re well into middle age now. Dare I hope
that they’re all still alive, that they’re healthy,

that they’ve forged the families
that they longed for then?

______________________________

Michelle Morouse is a Detroit-area pediatrician. Her flash fiction and poetry have appeared recently, or are forthcoming, in Burningwood Literary Journal, Midwest Review, Prose Online, Best Microfiction 2022, Touchstone Literary Magazine, Faultline Journal of Arts and Letters, Litro, and Unbroken. She serves on the board of Detroit Working Writers. Follow: @MichelleMorouse

March 2023