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.