"The Provincial Lunatic Asylum (1850s)" and "Walls (1860s)"

A sky of steeples and domes, the cupola soars above, atop rows of uniform windows.

The Provincial Lunatic Asylum (1850s)

A sky of steeples and domes, the cupola
soars above, atop rows of uniform windows.
Orchards and curvilinear regions of green,
a tiered fountain. Stone steps, a door.
Inside, sewage pools underneath floorboards.

Aproned nurses carry a stretcher
into a shed. Disrobe the dead, toss
the clothes into the incinerator.
Scrub skin with animal fat,
then rinse. Dirt escapes by drain.

At the bend of the elbow, an incision:
scalpel-wielder weaves curved needle
in and out of flesh, suture surrounding
the artery. He tugs it taut, knotting
ligature. Cuts it loose; starts again.

Doctor pries off the skull cap. Reaches
into the cavity, cradling the cleaved
cerebrum. Can he feel the weight
of its memories? Are they locked behind
membranes? Or were they emptied by death?

He guides the brain into a lukewarm bath,
then submerges it in a jar, sealing the lid.
He replaces the skull cap. Stitches skin
back together. Scrubs his hands clean.
Eyes on the table stay shut.

Nurses return, dress the torso in a soft
white bedgown, tuck the arms into sleeves.
Do they notice the stitching?
They guide the remains into a dishevelled
wooden casket. Bury it in an unmarked grave.






Walls (1860s)

Weary arms fight sickness
with shovels, digging ditches.
Others forage for stones, pile in holes.

Family captors could not cope with her
incessant oscillating, wild beast they believed her to be.
They cuffed her to the bed.

Men mix mortar, paint it across empty regions.
Brick palisades creep towards the sky,
the walls not yet sixteen feet tall.

Inside the asylum, her wrists bare
a familiar purpling from animal skin muffs.
She wants to rip them off, her fingers squirming.

How many days until they break her?
Until they no longer need to lock her
in that crib? She is surrounded

by ornate wooden bars, sick forest.
They watch her cry for hours,
regressing into childhood.

When they release her, she walks
along city streets. Surrounded by towering
walls that threaten to take her back

About the author

Sally O'Keeffe is a Canadian poet and artist pursuing her MFA at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Her poems have won awards from Harvard Radcliffe Institute and Harvard University, where she earned her undergraduate degree. O'Keeffe's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including Mississippi Review. Her art has been featured in exhibitions and published in outlets like The Harvard Advocate.