WINNIE'S WINDOW EYES.
Winnie enters the room. The psychiatrist stands
By the door with his false smile and greeting.
Take a seat, he says, pointing to a chair in front
Of his black desk. She sits in the chair, pulls her
Skirt to her knees, looks around the room, notes
His certificates, takes in the photos on his desk,
Family, kids, wife. He sits down, forms a tower
With his fingers together, stares at her, studies
Her features, notes her eyes, the way her hair
Hangs, the lips sealed. How are things now?
He asks. She keeps silent, seals lips tighter,
Looks at his thin moustache, neat, well clipped.
He picks up a folder, peers through. She looks
At the photos of the kids and wife, the wife
Plump, fat featured face, the kids well fed,
Spoilt, demanding. The report is not indicating
Improvement, he says, no words, no conversation.
He blabs on. She listens to the voices outside,
Along the passage, a woman shouting, screams
From somewhere. Her brother Karl stuck pins in
Her thighs, pulled her hair, pinched her arms.
The mind quack yaks on, his eyes all over her
Like moss on a damp wall, his fingers touching
At the tips. Karl made suggestions, lewd, told
Tales, spied through keyholes as she undressed.
She pushes her hands between her thighs, holds
Her knees tight together, watches the quack yak,
His lips opening, closing like a fish out of water.
She wanted Karl to stop, he made her do things.
Karl lied, their mother cried, her father beat the
Shit, beat her black and blue. Winnie can hear
Voices, sees Karl’s face over the quack’s shoulder,
Dead now, looks older, spent, fucked. She opens
Her lips, mouths words, no sounds. Karl’s throat
Still slit where she opened, ear to ear, not now,
Some year, some year. The quack yaks on, his
Fingers folding into each other, hairy, black hairs,
Skin sun blessed brown. The mind quack shuts
The yak, stares at her middle digit, rise and fall,
Fall and rise and the emptiness in her haunted eyes.
