as soon as I step into
this cell
and the metal door slams shut
I want to be a blank canvas now
It’s not the blank walls
that make me remember
where I am and what I did
It’s not the metal door
or the narrow platform
that extends out from the wall
with its thin mattress
like padding in sneakers
or the silver toilet that’s attached
to a small sink
like I’m supposed to wash
my face where I shit
(And I remember Umi always saying
don’t eat where you shit)
or the row of hooks instead of a closet
like my new drip
is ten versions of this orange jumpsuit
It’s the loud quiet
It’s the voices that I don’t recognize
It’s the random screams and shouts
It’s that buzzing followed by locking metal
over and over and over again
like each time those doors close
I sink deeper and deeper into hell
I feel it in my stomach now
the stone that was in my throat
the brick that was on my chest
The mountain in my throat
the building on my chest
are now an entire country and city
in my stomach
A heavy, crowded, broken place
right there in the middle of me
So I sit on that thin mattress
and hold my head in hand
I listen to my breath
the only thing I can trust right now
I listen to my heart
And it’s the memories that stay with me
hours after seeing my family
Their faces are still there
behind my eyelids
Their voices speak to me
inside my head
And home calls my name, too
Amal
I don’t forget the sound of the city
cars honking, sirens blaring
the homies on the block talking shit
music blasting
Home has a bass, a rhythm, a groove
so it was always easy
to rhyme to it, to sing to it, to dance to it
to draw to it, to paint to it
Here, there’s no music
the silence and the closing of metal doors
and that buzzer like at the end of
a quarter in a basketball game
An alarm telling us that the game is over
again and againover and over
Lights Out
God, The Artist
Allah is the only artist here
And He prefers the darkest night to be his canvas
He paints the past in broad strokes, bright hues
And the memories dance all over my mind
in living color
He paints in words and voices, rhymes and rhythm
And every whisper, every conversation beats a drum
in my mind
at full blast
He paints in wrong choices, regrets, and broken dreams
And every acquaintance, friend, and enemy laughs at me
in my mind
really, really loud
Lights On
Wallflower
The sun is up
It shines through a tiny window
above my narrow bed
The mattress can’t even
be called a mattress
There’s a small desk and stool
that extends out from the wall
and everything in here is
attached to a fucking wall
and I wonder how long it’ll be
before I’m attached to the walls, too
I don’t even want to get up
because it’s only now
that sleep is finally
pulling at my eyelids
And I wonder I wonder
if Jeremy Mathis has woken up, too
Sunrise
Someone slips a tray
through the slot in my door
Not food
but close enough
A rolled-up towel, toothpaste
a small bar of soap, a toothbrush
and a pair of black flip-flops
SlowSlowSlowly
I do what I’m supposed to do
The things that make me
still human
The door opens
It’s a lady officer
Good morning!
ShowerBreakfast
in the mess hall
Meeting with your officer
and the social worker
Then you start your program
she says
She wears makeup
Glitter eyeshadow
and shiny lips
Her braids are pulled back
like Dionne’slike Zenobia’s
She smiles
and something warm rises
in my belly
in that broken place
like sunshine, maybe
Pipeline
We walk one behind the other
with our hands clasped behind us
Our towels rolled up in our fists
I used to line up like this
in kindergarten
except with a finger on my lips
walking buddy next to me
If I turned around
or spoke or
stepped out of line
I got in trouble
I always got in trouble
because I always had a friend
in front, in back, and next to me
There was always something
to sayto ask
There was always a joke to tell
to laugh at
But here and now
it’s not a classroom, it’s a cell block
it’s not a restroom, it’s open stalls and showers
it’s not a lunchroom, it’s the mess hall
it’s not friends, it’s inmates, felons, and delinquents
If I squint
I almost can’t tell the difference
Conversations with God II
I know his face
but I don’t dare look at it
Stanford sits behind a desk in an office
like he’s in charge
The offices here
are like the principal’s office
or the nurse’s office at school
Places that are supposed to
help
He motions for me to sit
as he stares at a computer screen
typing stuff about me, I’m sure
Face is looking better
he says
That’s not always a good thing here
Don’t mess with it
Don’t try to heal it
It lets people know not to mess
with you for a while
Somebody already did the job
Still, he doesn’t look at me
and I’m starting to not mind
being visible and invisible at the same time
I’m gonna ask you a few questions
Be honestDon’t bullshit me
he says
I got all your basic info
but don’t get too deep
I’m not a psychologist
I’m not your doctor
I’m not your daddy
I’m just putting in the data
and someone else will
figure it out
I keep my head up
like Uncle Rashon told me to
I keep my eyes on an empty space
like Uncle Rashon told me to
even though he never had to
sit in front of somebody
who wanted to destroy him
On a scale of one to ten
how happy are you?
Stanford asks
And I don’t have an answer for him
That question—
I don’t even have words for
Zero, I say
On a scale of one to ten