It wasn’t the nine who died

in my first fortnight, for which I was

nicknamed, The Angel of Death. 

It was the people tied to chairs,

their thin-skinned ankles flayed

and bruised. It was the way 



residents were given

liquid largactil           

to shut them up. 



It was the way

they were herded, scolded.



I found drug card proof: 

largactil was not prescribed.



I took photos when no-one was looking,

wild haired people, tied and rocking.



I was twenty-two, for fuck’s sake,

wanted to drink and party, not cry,

or spy for those in power. So I left.



But I still see men and women

wandering at night in pyjamas.

They rattle locked doors,

cry, Help me, help me.

About the Author

Jenny Robb, from Liverpool, has been writing poetry since retiring from a social work/NHS career, mainly in mental health. She’s been published widely in online and print magazines, and anthologies. Her debut collection is The Doll’s Hospital, Yaffle Press 2022.