On the count I rise and state my number.
If I should forget and slumber,
it's 24 hour lockdown.
Can't move around
The murmering voices of mothers
and daughters echo wrong choices,
but for me, silent indignation
speaks innocent incarceration.
Male guards jeering, joking, peering
while I sit on the throne alone,
towel across my lap.
Privacy a spread out map
for watching eyes.
I wish there was someplace
for me to hide.
A concrete room, 6' by 4'.
Mechanically closing cell door
banging steel heartbeats
through the block.
I weep, I sleep, I keep
the clock ticking hope
pick a lock in my dreams
Inside, I scream.
I'm shaken, awakened
in the night. Ms. Wolfe's glasses
reflect dim light
A guard who gloats at my pain.
She says once again,
"You're going upstate.
Give me your autograph
before it's too late.'
I signed you in. That news article
might be worth something."
I turn away.
That is my yesterday.
I live for now.
It's been 5 years
but still I don't know how
to fight the pain, to break the chain,
to stop the cellblock-ringing
in my brain.
