Sainted and Schismatic: Ern to Ethel
My dear, I write from this hellish place
where need for asylum prevents
my escape. Each night wearily I push
away a scraped supper plate and take
another blank sheet from this burred sheaf
of writing paper, dip pen in my bottle of ink.
They can’t stop me writing here. I know
they’d like to. After they put electrodes
to my head they’d supposed I’d never
scribe another poem. Strange to say,
it seemed instead to open new rivers,
coursing through my shocked skull.
Nightly words haemorrhage from me.
But they take them away to burn each
morning. So I must start over again,
thinking of you, my dear, those
nights we shared so long ago;
I had your silken eyes to kiss
and sainted maiden knees.