Two Poems by Chris Hayes

[First, there was the wandering episode,]

First, there was the wandering episode,
then the night I found our steak knives
in the fireplace, and then a secret code
my wife sensed in the electric beehives

of streetlamps. The TV she unhooked
from the wall kept pouring out songs
I couldn’t hear. For a while, A. looked
lost. Then her eyes, muddled, wrong,

rocked open, bright again. She knew
her brain wasn’t right. She paused
in thought, considered the flashlight

in her hand, and asked, What do I do
now? I told her nothing was lost,
and together we looked for it all night.

[In the ward they bolt the chairs to the floor.]

In the ward they bolt the chairs to the floor.
Steady ships when the sea-foam tile upsets
one boy into drowning, followed by the rest,
except my wife, who walks me to the door.

Her socked feet slip toward it, not as slow
as yesterday. Right now, her mind is clear,
I think, until she says, Your dad’s in here.
He was (handcuffs, blue gown) years ago,

and returns now as an orderly whose face
she recognizes from photos. Granite beard,
same dark blue eyes. Like him, she’s scared
to fall asleep. She wants to leave this place.

I say goodbye. The ward nurse locks her in.
Behind, her singing, Baby, I can’t say when…

Chris Hayes has published poems in The Missouri Review, Hobart, The Gettysburg Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, and several other literary magazines. His first collection of poems, Hey Y’all Watch This, will be published by Barrow Street Press later in 2020. Chris lives and works in Tallahassee, FL.