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Approaching
Prison
The
blue sky that follows me,
one stroke left at twilight
stretching through huge fields of dust,
tumbleweed then distant lights.
One stroke left at twilight,
a dim sign, Border Crossing 2 Miles
tumbleweed then distant lights:
State Prison Property. No Trespassing.
A faint sign, Border Crossing 2 Miles.
I follow curves to an access road:
State Prison Property. No Trespassing.
Watchtower, concrete bricks, barbed wire.
I follow curves to an access road.
My hands, a steering wheel, this growing dark,
watchtower, concrete bricks, barbed wire.
I signed up to teach these men to write.
My hands, a steering wheel, this growing dark.
I can turn around and leave, but
I signed up to teach these men to write,
don’t want to know who did what crime.
I can turn around and leave, but
I want these men to smell the road –
don’t want to know who did what crime –
to hear the wind, rip the darkness, open up.
I want these men to smell the road,
stretching through huge fields of dust,
to hear the wind, rip the darkness, open up
the blue sky that follows me.
published in Askew (2006)
In
the visiting room I ask myself:
What does it feel like to kiss a man
who held a whole family hostage and murdered
with no remorse? He ambles close,
shoulders back, muscles tight, hair slick,
mustache masking his upper lip. He’s the outlaw
climbing down his horse.
What he wants: to rub up against me,
his breath hitting my face like dry ice.
I secretly crouch in that fire
pretending I’m someone else for that fifteen
second
kiss he’s permitted. Then he sits, reaches
for my hands across the table and places his order.
I’m to send tee shirts, paper, stamps.
And he wants photos, lots of photos of me.
I try to talk about his poetry,
but he has stories to tell. Stabbings
on the yard, a plot to kill a rival gang member.
I listen like I’m talking to a colleague.
Papers to grade, department meetings, curriculum.
The hour passes and he winks goodbye. Behind
a metal door, the strip search. He squats
and coughs to prove he isn’t stashing drugs.
I join the line of low-cut dresses,
high heels, heavy make-up and perfume –
women waiting for a bus to the car lot. The highway
from the access road is so quick
I almost miss it. I grip the wheel, roll my tongue
around my empty mouth, turn the radio up,
swerve to miss a jackrabbit shooting across asphalt.
I won’t come back – I swear it.
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