Young Widow

Young Widow

I sat myself firmly

at the steel, round-topped table

bolted to the floor we shared

once at Riverhead jail.

I chose the empty seat

directly opposite the bully on purpose

who proclaimed proudly that

My Mom can beat the crap

out of anybody! And by the looks

of the daughter I know this

must have been true. I stayed

friendly—poked fun at the inedible

food--for a moment we shared

a common enemy.

You were seated to my right,

to my left another of your jail-friends.

You spoke of your two daughters.

Not to me directly, their father

now dead, another heroin victim.

You would never inflict a stepfather

on them—your girls—Worse than a mother

in jail? I thought. My Higher Self,

sometime enemy, sometime friend

stepped in. Judge not lest ye be judged,

he said. Always a He, he is and

He is mine, not some hermaphroditic

nature god playing his flute

while civilizations burn but

definitely a He. I held my tongue.

If you only knew how
difficult for me.

Wanted to say I understood

more than you could possibly know—

maybe even more than you just yet.

I spoke softer than this angry place

we shared—touched your arm

and you let me—told you that you’d

love again. You just aren’t ready.

Someone who would be good to you

will be good to them. I hoped my words

pierced you black veil, even if for just

a moment--I chose one of my

very few lies carefully—

I have a good stepfather. I got up,
thanked you and your friends

for sharing a meal and their

table, took my tray to the trash

scraped it clean.

Stained Glass Prison

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Stained Glass Prison

               As long as we’re together

                With the moonlight shining—

                It doesn’t matter what I did

                It doesn’t matter what I did

                                                Meema (Ally)

                                                5 East South, Suffolk County Correctional Center

The girls have all gone out to yard—

to walk endless circles

cover a blacktop beach—t-shirts

rolled up, ripped shorts hiked up

become bikinis.

It’s the ordinary things

will break your heart. Coughing,

menstruating, struggling for soap

utensils, shampoo, shoes

for the shower.  

Trade backrubs for coffee

Cosmetics—all these girl things

still so important—a bit of lotion

chapstick, hair ties ripped from

standard issue socks.

Smells of coconut linger.  Male guard

watches them shower  from his booth.

Scrub whites in the sink, hoard bleach

and plastic bags—tampon strings clean up

eyebrows—are made into rings

Barbecue sauce made of syrup

ketchup and mustard packets

a stolen onion

a hoarded tomato

Woven mats of old news cover

toilet seats, peanut butter packets

warmed between our hands.

Girl on suicide watch walks by in her green

velcro dress and her 24 hour guard.

 

At night you can hear them singing,

Screaming, banging their heads against

cement walls, withdrawing from heroin

crack, prescription drugs

and heterosexuality

crying, masturbating, praying.

Sargent makes his rounds

moonlight shines through

an iron window grate

divine light shape of chain mail

and cathedrals

hits the floor near beds

chained to prison bars

on names scratched everywhere

even in the soap.

Night fades

and its morning

slowly familiar birdsong begins—

a cacaphony of a single bird

strong enough to nest

on this roof—sun rises

presents itself to everyone

everwhere equally

on prisons of our own making.