Painting by Bev Jackson
Prison Ghazal
I am my own executioner. Guilt the noose around my neck in prison,
but it means nothing: Guilty Plea just another box to check in prison.By 23 I've known more death than life. Too young for origami eyes—
I'm aging in dog years. Trauma multiplies time's effects in prison.All the lives this place has subsumed. We suffocate under the weight,
telling war stories in shared silence. Grief is the dialect in prison.My family might be dead by the time I get out. I can't handle possibility.
Who would I live for, then? Variables make you circumspect in prison.I can't remember what years of concrete have made me crave.
Orange chicken, hungry kisses—things I can no longer recollect in prison.He wanted me to come home to him. Lovesick, I knew he meant it
but they all leave when reality sets in. There's no way to connect in prison.On her knees, she tried to give me head. But I can't feel a thing—
God shields her face from my sins. Don't ask me to genuflect in prison.For weeks I raised a baby swallow, piping it bread and peanut butter.
Somehow, I'm still gentle. I need something pure to protect from prison.
