I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death.

I had a great yearning, lately, to pay my father back for all the years of neglect.

It was past midnight, and the asylum as quiet as death.

The bell jar hung, suspended, a few feet above my head.

I had a great yearning, lately, to pay my father back for all the years of neglect.

The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

The bell jar hung, suspended, a few feet above my head;

my own mother wasn’t much help.

The silence depressed me. It wasn’t the silence of silence. It was my own silence.

The person you thought all your life was your father is a sham.

My own mother wasn’t much help:

a night bird into the enveloping darkness.

The person you thought all your life was your father is a sham.

A daughter in an asylum!—

a night bird into the enveloping darkness.

Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them.

A daughter in an asylum:

the person in the bell jar.

Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them;

I tried to recover a thread that might lead me back.

The person in the bell jar.

The twin bed next to mine was empty and unmade.

I tried to recover a thread that might lead me back.

I thought what a long way I had come.

The twin bed next to mine was empty and unmade.

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death.

I thought what a long way I had come

—it was past midnight, and the asylum as quiet as death.

Virginia Barrett is a poet, writer, artist, editor, and educator. She earned her MFA in Writing from the University of San Francisco where she was poetry editor of Switchback. Her seventh book of poetry, The Vessels We Carry Keep Us Alive, is forthcoming from Saint Julian Press. Her sixth editing project, YELLOW: a Hue Are You anthology, the third book in a series, is forthcoming in 2026. www.virginiabarrett.com