The Wound Man: In Memoriam, Dr J.D. Gomersall Poem by Sheena Blackhall

No fires, no bedding
Chains and rotting straw, their en suite frills
Lunatics were padlocked to the walls
Purged, whipped and beaten
To release their demons
Taunting by gaping vapours and cat calls

Manacles bit their flesh
Opening sewers that ripened into gangrene
Leeches sucked their blood
Their minds unhinged by mercury,
Syphilis, melancholy
Basket cases, raped, abused, misused
Lying in piss and pain, in their own crud

Step forth the Wound Man
Healing hidden hurts: the talking cure
Receiving secrets, like the host on the tongue

Some issues stick in the craw
He’d prize out shards of slanders
From under the skin
Restring the broken beads from reality’s rosary

The Wound Man followed his creatures
Into their mind’s wilderness
Laying down crumbs of insight
To lead them to wellness

Now his memory flaps
Like a prayer flag in the wind
Still releasing his wisdom to the air