In False Detective, Patricia Walsh captures a life under constant watch, letters censored, calls screened, movements monitored. Through sharp, restless lines, the poem explores paranoia, control, and the uneasy dance between suspicion and self-preservation
A benevolent informant, a world of persecution
skulks in corners awaiting doom.
twelve-year's old life is interesting now.
A dictionary of anger, biography of outrage.
She'll hang you out to dry, no mistake.
What crime fits the punishment I'll never know.
Staring out windows, a multiplication
salves all curiousities save depression.
Attention sought and delivered in time.
Freedom for discos is out of the question.
Social life unimportant, toxic at best
paving ways towards derision, if you're lucky.
Healing the brain is another question entirely.
Inside and upstairs will keep you sweet
an illusion of studying for ever more.
Letters to friends go censored.
Phone calls go through silent screenings
to glean some excitement, an innocuous scandal.
Every move I make is known, for my own good
paranoia becomes me, a constant glare in the corner
watch my back for the reporters, fleeting as they are.
A rod for my back, repeatedly every day
around surreptitious corners, looking with intent
on my latest design, however chaste