About the Prison Along the Heart River 

For years I laid in grass 
thinking about prisons 

mind reaching back 
to the meaning behind 

brick. Un-wound that mangled 
the girls within us. 

Wrongness adjudicated 
to the countryside. That rawbone 

girlhood place we touch and tug
misdeeds from. 

To them we were serious at being bad.
To me it felt life uncontrolled 

had maimed me 
and I maimed it back. 

I woke in punctured fluorescence
seeing only my hands. 

I learned to handle my hurt 
as though a cause 

my body kept the symptom 
growing. We break 

a human covenant when we lock
our children up. 

If we failed & became 
recidivism, became more time 

they called it a wash.

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Rebellion

     with gratitude for Dr. Saidiya Hartman

In the Language Arts classroom, a girl tucks
a printed poem into her waistband. Carries it across
the Correctional Center’s campus and back
to Maple Cottage. 

Her eyes glued to the ground
as she walks. Carefully avoiding
the trim squares of grass in order to keep her feet 
within the monitored pavement.

She has already reached the limit
of printed items allowed in her personal items
drawer. This poem therefore
is considered contraband.

Each day she negotiates 

what is worth the risk 
of more discipline 
more time 
away from home– visits revoked 

24 hours sitting silent 
at a small wood desk 
facing a blank white wall. 

Still
she smuggles the poem
carries notes to 
and from friends

                                         sneaks a wayward glance

at a boy she’ll meet 
in the woodshop classroom
for a hidden kiss. Breaking 
in that mercy of touch.

Still she makes, where she can,
a life. Rising from bed
in spite of and despite– 
believing how her world 
might otherwise be. 

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