Attic

In my attic is a madwoman.
I allow her no attendant;
she has no kind Grace Poole to clean and feed her
or temper loneliness.

She’s no Creole beauty,
has not the spirit to scream and
lunge for freedom,
splintering fingers on studded doors.

In my attic is a madwoman.
I allow her no encouragement.
She sits, docile in restraints,
tearing her clothes and sucking her matted hair.