Two months in a psych ward, 2008

Do not crush. Do not split. Do not chew.
Pills in tiny paper cups each meal.
They know how well you sleep. They’re weighing you.

We all know the surveillance state’s not new.
And oh, when the psychosis hits, it’s real.
Do not crush. Do not split. Do not chew.

Don’t drive. Don’t breastfeed. Find something to do
that keeps you occupied while your cells heal.
They know how well you sleep. They’re weighing you.

The moms who didn’t visit have no clue,
and make a fuss with every greeting card they seal.
Do not crush. Do not split. Do not chew.

What’s motherhood if not a Subaru?
At three, my son’s transfixed by every wheel.
They know how well you sleep. They’re weighing you.

Beige food on green trays, serotonin cues;
absent mothers strive, but never yield.
Do not crush. Do not split. Do not chew.
They know how well you sleep. They’re weighing you.

Triny Finlay (she/they) is a queer and genderfluid settler poet, scholar, teacher, and mother. Their books include Splitting Off, Histories Haunt Us, and Myself A Paperclip. They teach English and Creative Writing at the University of New Brunswick, on the unceded and unsurrendered homelands of Wolastoqiyik.