Unsafe Discharge Poem by Dawn Wood

A plain package, brown paper, string.
And a felt tip-pen to write your name.
As if you'd just come out of hospital or prison.
Are these your belongings
that you're writing your name on?
Are you writing your name on the brown paper
because the package contains your things?

No. The package is what's left
of what you thought was you.

And you're standing, writing the name,
the real you, accepting the package,
putting your name on it.

Will you look after it?
The looking after's done.
Will you open it?
No, it's just a package at the end.
Will you keep it?
Good question. There's no need.

It represents the you you thought you were.
The you you had to go along with.
The you that you enjoyed.
The you that kept your hair appointments.
The you that learnt your times-table
and sweated should the teacher point at you
and name you for an answer,
the you that developed superstitions
about how to avoid attention.
The you that remembers how to be invisible.

The you that ran after possible futures,
away from impossible ones,
and neither amounted to much
beyond that you, since what you needed
always found that you;

The you that's of your family.
That looks more like your grandmother
than you know; the you of the gestures,
the fleeting muscle memory that doesn't flee,
how a rare smile flits through cousins and daughters,
like a wren in a thornbush.