Banned to the quiet room.
The walls inch ever closer.
She sits in a paint-chipped corner,
And slams her tangled head against the immovable wall.

She stands up awkwardly,
And moves jerkily toward the tiny window,
In that thick, Alcatraz-tinged iron door,
In hopes to use the bathroom and catch a fleeting taste of freedom.

She stamps bare feet and screams,
But nobody will come.
Alone in her disordered and disarranged contemplating,
Maria punches a chunk out of the box that holds her captive.
Then she digs a crater in her arm,
And takes a cleansing, life-affirming breath,
A sigh of liquid, womb-warm release,
From virtual captivity.

Jane Wanklin
1997.