untitled poem # 23
the warehouse heaves
two million bodies stored efficiently
head to toe to head
bunks stacked high holding families
are collateral damage
searched and questioned and branded
guilty for maintaining some semblance
of togetherness a patchwork
of relationships carved out amid surveillance
privacy is a luxury not sold
in the commissary
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nice! ain't it JUST like that though?
sadly, yes.
Sounds like the Middle Passage.
i never thought of that. but it does.
thank you for a new perspective.
mama tries to understand
but says it's hopeless
wipes the waiting eyes
& sets my soul for stitching
needle and thread
for the tears
grey goose the pain until
my chest heaves and
my heart bleeds
thinking bout...
the distance...
the time...
the crime...
and how his seed still
can't understand the absense of a memory that was once free
commissary women comiserating
silence louder than the jam in the traffic - damn,
the ride upstate is just too long
and I'm cryin' every time
I hear our favorite song
i numb the pain
by pouring out these scribes from my veins
and waiting for the hope to feel
less
well, hopeless...
prisoner's wife I've been/am where you are and hope my strength transcends seas, gives weight to wait, breaks sound and comes to you when the nights make you feel the day light will never get there soon enough.
You Sister in Arms still in NYC.
thank you, thank you.
you words give me strength to wait out this wait.