Arts in Society

November 5, 1980

October 11, 2019

Oct 11, 2019

I have called, in my wasted youth, the concrete slabs

Of prison home. Awakened to guards keeping tabs

On my breath. Bartered with every kind of madness,

The state’s mandatory minimums & my own callus.

I’ve never called a man daddy; & while sleep, twice

Wrecked cars; drank whiskey straight; nothing suffices—

I fell in love with sons I wouldn’t give my name. Once

Swam at midnight in the Atlantic’s violence,

Under the water, rattling broke the silence. I cussed

Men with fists like hambones & got beaten to dust.

Buried memories in my gut that would fill a book.

I’ve carried pistols but have never held a bullet.

There is frightful little left for me to hold in fear,

Definitely not the debt that threatens to hollow

Me. I’ve abhorred transparency, confessed to so-and-so,

But what of it matters, in this life so much has troubled,

& the few things that didn’t, never failed to baffle.

October 11, 2019