13-year-old Julieta Klehrmorgan
Moved to Norman, Oklahoma
Dad is an engineer, mom a
geologist –
both love Julieta, but are chronically
worried and self-absorbed
Julieta likes to explore
Mysterious traffic circle at
the end of Main Street
Twirl twirl
take the second outlet
Follow the road, weeks pushing
up from cracked asphalt
The block-long three-story red
brick Prairie Corinthian
An abandoned psychiatric
hospital, an “asylum”
Boarded up, a time capsule shivering
with its own knowledge -
Julieta peers into windows,
sees the
No Trespassing Sign on door…
but the door opens,
a boy around 12 waves to her
to come in.
Slender, wearing khaki pants,
sky blue button-down shirt
(or chambray)?, leather shoes
Dark, straight hair, round
face –
Walks through the door … slips
down stairs –
now in new dimension
new wood building, smells like
oil
She touches the wood – it
feels like a candle
Windows have metal bars
Through the window, she sees tall,
uncut prairie grass,
cedar trees, and a large pond
A couple of people are on
horseback
An apple orchard is in bloom
In a room, boys are seated
around a table
Sorting colored blocks to put
in small boxes
They seem to be wooden toys of
some kind
The boys are sorting, grouping
Some are able to move smoothly
Others have limited range of
motion
One is making grunting noises
Another, round face, lashless
eyes,
a perfect “O” for a mouth
Partial to the red blocks
A small blonde boy keeps
standing up on his chair
Another, pensive,
hunched-over,
sorting, sorting, sorting
Julieta picks up a block
Wonders, does it, too, feels
like a candle?
She thinks “no” –
Just a regular block of wood,
sanded smooth
Painted even smoother…
Through the window, the sun is
starting to set…
Night
Night
Evening prayers. Pray for
today
Pray for the fading memory of
a mother’s embrace
Pray for roommates sleeping in
iron cots, boys
sleeping under identical wool
blankets
soft, crisp white sheets
4 am, Saturday, April 13, 1918
The boy gestures to Julieta,
Look through the barred
third-floor window
Thunder growls in the distance
Flash of lightning, crack and
rattle of thunderclap
Old, twisted, half-dead cedar
tree bursts
Showers of sparks and
crackling flames
Gust front in a savage Derecho
Bends the limbs, strips the blossoms
from the tree
Fans the sparks like bellows
into a small flame
On a dark, cold night
Flames tear through the dry
pampas grass
Eating their way to the
dormitory building
The walls feel like candles
The floor sealed in wax
Screaming, shouting, rattling
of keys
Windows open, but bars built
into the frame
Doctors, nurses, night guards
screaming, shouting
Boys run down the only
corridor
To the only stairwell
Paraffin snapping, sparking,
crackling
Yellow-orange unstoppable
passion
L.T. Hawes running through
flames
Unlocking doors, hoping
against hope, and
The guard shielding two little
boys with his body
One boy clasping a block from
the day before
The ones able to talk sobbing
for their mothers
The deaf-mute wide-eyed
The Downs Syndrome boys
suffocating while they slept
Another guard with blanket
over hands on fire-hot bars
Trying to worry them out of
the wood frame
But then the smoke
Acrid wool, cotton, paraffin
and oak
Clouds inside
Clouds outside
The deadly Derecho with its drenching
rain
Put out the fire with water
From the same anvil clouds
that hammered
and sparked the cedar with a
jagged streak of lightning
Days later after paper
telegrams and letters delivered
Mothers, fathers, brothers,
sisters
Mute with guilt and grief: silent,
heaving shoulders
Regretting believing Dr.
Griffin’s promises – a brand new treatment
For their child who could not
mentally advance,
Or the ones who would not
speak, would not look in the eye
Long, protracted tantrums,
hour after hour
Riding on their wooden rocking
horse
Or simply rocking, rocking,
rocking back and forth
Could they have been helped
after all at home?
More prayers? More pleading?
More bargaining with God?
Night
Night
But by day the headlines:
“Three paraffin-soaked wooden
fire traps kill little boys!”
No more words needed
Julieta looks up
She is seated on an old park
bench
North of the red brick
Corinthian buildings
Clipped grass, concrete
silhouettes of building foundations
The air smells like wet dirt
and impending rain
Cardinals and robins chirping
The boy is back
“What is your name?”
November 27, 2022
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