Archive for the ‘Imprisonment’ Category

Imprisonment: issue summary

September 19, 2011 2 comments

by Ann E. Michael and Ken Lamberton

Imprisonment spurred many responses; the interpretations ranged from the literal to the metaphoric, as we’d hoped, and included meditations on its opposite: freedom. There were birds and bars and varieties of cells. There were visual images that summed up the sense of detainment succinctly and poems that led surprisingly to the sense of being ensnared or bound. We received submissions from people currently incarcerated and from others who have been in prison in the past or who have a loved one behind bars. Artists and writers expressed being imprisoned by relationships, or through physical limitations, or because of social or class barriers. Some of the submissions are full of rage, others of resignation, others, hope. We feel trapped, it turns out, by ourselves as well as by others. This is no surprise to a human being, yet some of the pieces we received were revelatory in their beauty or their honesty. We observed that few of the submissions dwelt on, or even dealt with, the punitive aspect of incarceration.

Interesting to consider: a relationship between this issue of qarrtsiluni and a previous theme, “The Crowd.” Imprisonment usually implies loneliness and isolation; but as the crowd issue paradoxically highlighted individuality, the theme of imprisonment seems, to me, to illuminate how common the sense of feeling trapped is: a thing we share, culturally, socially, psychologically. Being bound inherently awakens in us the desire to move — to struggle toward freedom. We learn, in that struggle, that freedom has as many forms as imprisonment does. When we feel surprised by something we think we know, understanding deepens. Editing “Imprisonment” offered that kind of revelation continuously. Many thanks to those who sent us their heartfelt work.

For bios of Ann and Ken, see the call for submissions.

Imprisonment: Table of Contents

September 16, 2011 Comments off

Qalqilya by Khadija Anderson

Fist by Karina Borowicz

My Cellies by John Purugganan

Al Capone’s Cell by Don Schroder

The Organ of Corti by Jamie Houghton

Conversation Camp by Peter Wortsman

Sister of All Holy Kitchens by Kate Irving

My Gated Community by Maurice Eidelsberg

Prisoner by Elizabeth Bodien

Effigy by Helen Overell

Get Off My Back, Saugus by Tom Sheehan

Admission Process by Louisa Howerow

How the Other Side… by Stephen Mead

Eleven Times A Loser, he said. by Rina Terry

The Winter I Went to Two Al-Anon Meetings, Realized I Didn’t Have What It Took to Love Your Version of Alcoholic by Nancy Flynn

Joseph Palmer’s Journal by Diane Kendig

Fire Escape by Nancy Devine

Objects of Desire and Their Wrapping by Dorothee Lang

Marielito by Nancy Scott

The Stick by Zackary Sholem Berger

At IGI Airport, New Delhi by June Nandy

Bruised by Glenis Redmond

Sentences and Corrections by James Brush

Guilty by Don Schroder

Neon in a Jar by Susan Elbe

Freedom from Fear by Helen Overell

in a no-win zone by Evie Shockley

Goldfish and water lily under ice by Lucy Kempton

Awaiting Trial by Linda Stewart-Oaten

A Theology of an Autistic Body by Nicole Nicholson

Imprisonment–Her Residence by Nithya Raghavan

Vegetative detention by Steve Wing

We dressed like Muslims by Khadija Anderson

They Say the Spring Breeze Has Come by Nicholas YB Wong

My Memory Palace by Robbi Nester

1950 by Barbara Crooker

The Babinski by Karen Greenbaum-Maya

Lock us up forever by Peter Ciccariello

Expelled by Ann Neuser Lederer

Rubber by Karina Borowicz

Coals by Lynnel Jones

Apartments by Rose Hunter

At Home in Hell by Rina Terry

Real Sorry by LeAnne Ray

Petite Morte, a Verse Dance with Captions by Wendy Vardaman

Martin Luther King envelope by Chris Barnett

Lafcadio Hearn Leaving Kobudera by Diane Kendig

If You Want Me by Ruth Foley

Goldfish Blues by Greg Weiss

I Shall Not Kill This Symbol by Karla Linn Merrifield

Prague Prisoner by Bruce Dodson

Irises by Rose Hunter

A Blizzard for Grandma by Lynnel Jones

So Like a Cell by Susan Weaver

My Father’s Grief by Susan Facknitz

A Murder of Crows by Emily Severance

At The Door of No Return by Elizabeth Bodien

Penance by Kristen Solecki

Balloon Boy, Later by Courtney Druz

To Save the Body and the Soul From Death, Damnation by Louisa Howerow

Two collages and a letter from an inmate by Jennifer Myers

life by William Aarnes

Saturnalia by Maryam Monalisa Gharavi

I Hear a Bird by Daniel Lear

The First Four Days by Elizabeth Kate Switaj

Art from Bangkwang prison by Felix Cheremnykh

Inside Voice by Glenis Redmond

The Capture by Monica Raymond

La Loma: A Mexican Prison Monodrama by Christopher Woods

Rusted Shut by Don Schroder

Categories: Imprisonment

Rusted Shut

September 15, 2011 1 comment

by Don Schroder

Rusted shut (Eastern Penetentiary) by Don Schroder
Eastern State Penitentiary, Philadelphia
(click on image to see a larger version)


Don Schroder is an Allentown, Pennsylvania-based travel and nature photographer. Whether shooting macro, telephoto or wide angle, Don tries to find the perspectives that capture not only the beauty of the surroundings but also the essence. When the two fall into place is when he is most satisfied with the image. To see more of his work, visit Contact him for custom ink-jet prints in varying sizes.

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La Loma: A Mexican Prison Monodrama

September 14, 2011 Comments off

by Christopher Woods

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“This is how the world works. This world, anyway.”


La Loma is a dramatic one-character play about a young American imprisoned in a Mexican border town jail. Jeff Garrison, a photojournalist on his first assignment, sets out to write a travel article about Mexico for a Texas magazine. But before he can complete his assignment, he is framed and arrested for drug possession by Mexican federales in a border town bar and held indefinitely in a squalid jail. In the months to come, Jeff faces danger, endures loneliness, and experiences firsthand the hypocrisy of the jail system. He learns the hard way about friendship, and the high cost of survival in a hellish world where life is cheap.

The Cast

Jeff Garrison – A young man.


La Loma, a prison in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. The present.


(Lights and soft guitar music come up in a jail in La Loma, a prison in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. Cell walls are grey and the floor is cement. Attached to one wall is a cement slab held up with chains and covered with a blanket. This serves as a bed. Above it is a small, barred window. Against another wall is a toilet bowl without a seat, and a faucet above it. This serves as a combination shower, toilet and sink. In a corner, between the toilet and the bed, a set of wooden crates serves as a pantry. There are canned goods, books, candles and a camping stove. A small wooden barrel sits next to the crates. On the wall hangs a small American flag. In another corner, there is a crate with a burning candle on top. A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. Music fades.)

(Jeff, sitting cross-legged, rocks a bit, then stops. A maniacal look in his eyes, he speaks directly to the audience in a conspiratorial tone.)


Sometimes, I hear him. Him! I do. Limousine in the drive. My consul bringing a big surprise.

(A crazy laugh)


(crawls toward audience, on his knees)

Shh! Listen…

Do you hear him? Do you?

(another maniacal laugh)

(Jeff sits, hugs his knees, rocks some more)





(Jeff stands on the slab, looking out the window. He then turns and begins to flip playing cards into the open end of the barrel)

When I first came here, I didn’t know a thing. Nada. Sure, language was a problem. The Spanish I knew was limited to a Taco Bell menu. Me, I took a year and a half of French in high school. Maybe I should have gotten my ass thrown in a French jail? Oh well, maybe next time.

(gets up, picks up cards from the floor and returns the barrel to its place)

So, why am I here? For doing nothing, if that makes any sense. Down here, that’s about as clear as it gets.

Did I mention my name? No? It’s Garrison. Jeff Garrison. I’m from Camfield, Texas. Do you know it?

I used to, but I haven’t seen it in almost four years. Why? Because I’m here. In La Loma.

Did you know, La Loma means “the hill?” A small hill. A little hill. That’s the best translation I ever got.

It’s funny. Most hills go up, then come down. This hill is all going up. The hard way. There’s no coming down.

One good thing about being on a hill, though. It’s higher than the rest of this border town. It’s got a nice view. If I look out my window, I can see Texas.

(goes to slab, looks out)

There, past the courtyard. Texas! Ten blocks away. That’s all, just ten blocks. Ten blocks.

(crosses to stove, crouches, lights it, adjusts flame. Pours water from a jug into a pan, sets it on stove to warm)

By now, I’d have my BFA in photography. But everything’s on hold. Until something changes.

Hey, I was doing great. Good grades. Plus, I got my first assignment from a magazine, VACATION WEEKLY.

They wanted me to do a travel article and gave me a choice. Key West or Mexico.

Since I’d never been to either place, and Mexico sounded kind of exotic, I decided to come down here. (kills a roach by stepping on it) Damn roaches. I guess I should have picked Key West, huh?

But I’d seen photographs of Mexico. The Day Of The Dead, all that spooky stuff. I like it, what can I say? So, this seemed a good way to come down and have a good time, all expenses paid. Sitting back in Camfield, it sounded okay.

(checks on water on the stove)

Where was I? Oh, right, my first assignment. I was going to do a portfolio of a border town. (looks around, laughs) Like this. Then I was going to do a series on churches. Mainly for myself. For my spooky side.

(sticks his finger in the pan to check on the water. It’s hot, and he jerks his hand back)

Ever been in a Mexican church? The first thing you notice is how old they are. Older than God. And dark. And how much light can come from candles. Hundreds of them. Each candle is a kind of hope. That’s what I’m told. You see them blazing, and that’s where it get spooky. You start to think about how much misery there must be.

Me, I decided to focus on statues. Saints. All kinds. You know why? They’re gory, really gory. They’ve got blood, not real blood, maybe red paint, all over them. The saints look like they’ve been dipped in blood. Makes you wonder. Makes our statues back home look anemic or something.

(goes to crate, gets a jar of instant coffee)

It’s crazy that they let me keep this stove. What if I wanted to burn this place down? Maybe cement and stone don’t burn so well.

(makes coffee, drinks from cup)

What do they say, celebrate the moments of your life? (laughs) That’s me.

No, the reason they let me keep my stove is because they don’t feed you here. State prisoners have to rustle up their own food. You have to look out for yourself. And there’s a commerce system here. Buy what you can, bribe for what you can’t. Free enterprise.

Hey, I don’t mind telling you, getting locked up in a Mexican jail was never one of my dreams. (slight pause) Want to know how I got here?

It was easier than you think. I made no effort at all.

Right after I crossed the Rio Grande, I stopped in one of those little border bars. The ones with the salsa music and chili pepper lights? You got it. Smell of stale beer too.

I’m sitting in this bar, “Rosa’s.” A girl brings me a beer. Then she brings me another. She’s got a nice smile. Makes me think of Jennifer, my girlfriend back in Camfield. Wishing she had come to Mexico with me.

After the third beer, the girl comes and sits down with me. She’s got her hand on my thigh, massaging it. Feels real good. Neither one of us knows what the other is saying, but we’re both smiling a lot. Pretty soon my hand is on her thigh. I’m thinking, this is nice.

All of a sudden, I see a bunch of cops. Federales. They come storming into the bar. Now, I’m a little high, but I know something’s wrong. Maybe somebody got stabbed. But then I see they’re coming in my direction. The girl gets up and disappears.

Cops are all around me now. They’re all talking, but I can’t understand them.

One of the cops gets down. On all fours, like a dog. He’s looking under the table. What’s he looking for? When he comes back up, he’s got a big smile on his face. He drops something on the table. A bag. I see it. I look at the smiling cop, then the others. I’m a little drunk, but I start to catch on. I’m thinking, this doesn’t look so good.



(Jeff, heard offstage briefly)

Hey! Lighten up! Take it easy. What’s the rush? Huh?

(Jeff, thrown into the cell, falls to the floor. After the cell door slams behind him, the lights come up. Slowly, Jeff gets up and brushes himself off. He wears glasses, a cotton pullover and huaraches. He checks his lips and they are bleeding. He looks around the cell for the first time)

(to an unseen guard) Hey, what is this?

Why am I here?

Talk to me! I’m not playing around. I’m an American! Can’t you see that? You can’t do this to an American. I’ve got rights. Ever heard of rights?

(in shock, he looks around cell)

So, it’s funny, huh? Think so? Yeah, real funny. What do you think you’re doing? Tell me! Just what do you think you’re doing?

What is this place, some kind of holding cell? What are you going to do? Keep me overnight, put a little scare in the gringo?

(to guard offstage)

Don’t mess with my camera. Don’t do that. Just hand it to me, okay? Hand it over and I’ll forget this ever happened.

What? (slight pause) It’s a stove. For camping. You want it? Take it! I don’t care. Just give me my camera. (acts out with his hands) Give… me… my… camera. Give it to me. Don’t you ever understand sign language?

What are you doing! Don’t do that! Don’t smash my camera!

(incredulous, he watches the guard)

What do you want? Money? Yeah, you know that word. Dinero. That’s it, right? Hey, I can play this game. (searches his pockets) Arrest a gringo, shake him down for a few bucks. (discovers his pockets are empty) You took my money! You creeps! How can I bribe you if you already stole my money?

Listen, I’m an American. Got it! (pronounces it slowly) A-m-e-r-i-c-a-n. You can’t do this to me. Just wait. All hell will break loose over this.

Don’t just stand there smiling. Talk to me! What have I done? Tell me. Let me in on it too. (angry) If this is a joke, it’s not too funny.

(quickly moving back and crouching next to the slab in fear) Hey, hey, hey, wait! Hang on a minute. There’s no need for that. Think about what you’re doing. Think about it. There’s no need for that. Don’t point that thing at me. Jesus!

(sits on slab) Okay, okay. Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m…I’m sorry. But you need to understand. There’s been a big mistake and I’m a little upset. (struggles for a word) Comprende?

Yeah, a mistake. That’s all. You just got the wrong guy. So please, don’t point that gun at me.

Hey, I don’t blame you. Mistakes happen, right? Even back home. People get arrested all the time for stuff they didn’t do. There’s innocent people on death row. Everybody knows that. Me, being here, it’s the same. But hey, I don’t blame you. You were just following orders.

Tell you what. See my camera bag? On the floor? Yeah, over there. That’s it. Um…dinero. In the side pocket. Take it, it’s yours. Just let me talk to someone.

You don’t understand me at all, do you? Well, don’t worry. I’ll get all this straightened out. You’ll see. For now, put the gun down. (motions) Just-put-it-down. Put it down. Good! Okay, that’s better. (sigh of relief) Yeah.

It’s like this. I’ve never had a gun pointed at me before. It’s a …surprise, that’s what it is.

Hey, where are you going? Don’t leave. Come back. We need to settle this. (moves off slab) You aren’t leaving me in here, are you? I’m an American citizen. You can’t just walk away from me. Listen! I didn’t do anything wrong! Come back!



(Jeff stands centerstage, facing the audience. He holds his ankles, pants around his feet, being stripsearched)

(in pain) I’m not holding anything! What makes you think today is any different from yesterday? Don’t you guys ever get tired of this?

(Jeff screams in pain, then pulls up his pants and moves to stage right, looks back at the pace he was just before)

I left, but my body didn’t. I left, even if it was just inside my head. I went to a place where I could be safe.

I must have been nine or ten. A creek ran by our house. Next to the creek, some trees. In one tree, my buddies and me built a treehouse. That was our world, our safe place.

Sometimes, I went there by myself. My Dad was weird on me, what can I say? He started in on me when I was pretty young. Made me have sex with him. What could I do? How much power does a nine year old have? So, I’d leave. Go to my treehouse, even if it was just inside my head. No pain there. If you were me, you’d do the same. Wouldn’t you?

In the treehouse, no one could get to you. You were safe. You could dream. Look over the trees, across the town. You could see the future. And you know something? The future always looked better.

If you want to survive, you’ll find a way. The pain’s not so bad that way. For me, it’s a treehouse. Maybe it’s different for you. But you understand, don’t you? It’s how we survive, over and over.

I’d have done anything to stop those stripsearches. Stripsearch. That’s a funny word for rape. Hell, they weren’t looking for anything. They wanted to get their rocks off. Show who’s boss.

When it happens, I can hear screams. Loud, sickening screams. It took me awhile to realize they were my screams. Over and over. But I was safe. I was in the treehouse. They couldn’t touch me, not really.

(Jeff assumes the stripsearch position again)

I see the trees. The creek. I can see a long, long way.



(Jeff sits on the floor next to the toilet. He is battered and bloody. He sees someone approach the cell. Wary at first, he then seems surprised)

(rushes to the door) Wait a minute. You speak English? You’re American, aren’t you?

(shakes hands) I’m Jeff Garrison. Yeah? How did you know?

(looks around) Yeah, I guess it is a small place. I haven’t seen enough to know for sure. And I’m not sure I’m going to make it through the whole tour. Even if it’s a short one.

So, what’s your name?…Mitchell? Mitchell what?…Oh, okay. Just Mitchell.

(feels his head) How do I look? Feels like I need some minor surgery. I’d kill for a few stitches.

Good question. I don’t know why I’m here. All I know is that I was sitting in a bar, drinking beer. And now I’m here. The cops said they found something under the…

What’s so funny?

Heard it before? But I haven’t talked to you before.

Happens all the time, huh? Great. So what happens next?

What do you mean, wait. Wait for what? Hey, where are you going?

Mitchell! Wait! I’ve got some questions.

(quietly) Yeah. See you around.

(Jeff looks around the cell, then slowly goes back to the place where he was sitting)


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Christopher Woods has published a novel, the Dream Patch, a prose collection, Under a Riverbed Sky, and a book of stage monologues, Heart Speak. His photo essays have appeared in Public Republic, Glasgow Review and in Narrative Magazine, among others. He lives in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas, and shares an online gallery with his wife Linda at Moonbird Hill Arts.

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The Capture

September 12, 2011 2 comments

by Monica Raymond

How does the tame
animal in the corral remember
the wilds from which she came?

Now is all order, champing
of given green, chafing
against content, peace, use.

Now the unseen flares up
in fence posts: once I was glory,
flame in the wilderness, now

I am house
bound, house broken.
The ranges
close in—each fence once

was wood, and each grass seed
flew through the air, bare-
back, equestrian splendor

in every guardian. That we
to this place came, how caught
not issue any longer, but that

we meet, above us
sky and night, a geode split,
the fractured crystals of what once

was whole spill
down on us like salt. How then
wage wild or tame

when all in this fenced place
came to reckon, vanish, held
together briefly, as by some force?

Unlikely stars, grass, horse, unlikely
us, galloping our read
and leaping where numbered

stanzas place boundaries on
boundless. Or hold us in it, all

dark wind, expanse, we
leaping choose to live,
not one captor and the other captive.

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Monica Raymond is a poet, playwright, sometime essayist and photographer, general artist/teacher type, currently based in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She’s published all of the above genres (except plays) in previous issues of qarrtsiluni.

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Inside Voice

September 9, 2011 Comments off

by Glenis Redmond

Down the dark tunnel of throat
in the threaded jungle of larynx,
what if what is waiting is not a humble
lark in a darkened cubicle?
What if what is waiting is a ragged bark
of a crow perched on the breath,
not with a small cry
but a crimson song
filling the hush of the horizon
with lungs flared in full wing.

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Glenis Redmond is a native of Greenville, South Carolina. She resides in Asheville, North Carolina. She graduated from Erskine College and obtained her M.F.A at Warren Wilson College. She is a full-time performance poet and published in literary journals across the nation.

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Art from Bangkwang prison

September 8, 2011 2 comments

by Felix Cheremnykh


Felix Cheremnykh - Bangkwang art
Click image to view a larger version.


Felix Cheremnykh is a 39-year-old inmate from the Ukraine, serving a 40-year sentence in Thailand’s infamous Bangkwang prison. With no artistic training, Felix has been sketching and drawing inside Bangkwang these past nine years as a means to survive spiritually and to fight for his freedom. Disavowed by his country after his arrest, he has no support from the Ukrainian Embassy, and is petitioning the Russian government to help him. He hopes to use his artwork to bring awareness to his situation inside Bangkwang, the conditions of which are in violation of international human rights standards. He draws in ballpoint pen on paper up to 15 hours a day in his crowded cell.


The drawing was submitted on Felix’s behalf by Canadian activist Heather Luna-Rose, director of Luna-Rose Prisoner Support Society, who spends several months every year at Bangkwang prison, Thailand, daily visiting foreign-national prisoners. She brings vitamins, food, and toiletries and bears witness. She writes,

I started visiting Felix two years ago, and his incredible determination continually inspires me. In 2010, I exhibited his original works at an art gallery on Salt Spring island, BC. All proceeds from the sales of his work were deposited into his prison account, which he uses to buy his food, water, sleeping space on the ground, and all necessities in the prison.

Often unable to contact families, nor to get support from their embassies, the poorest prisoners’ lives are extremely difficult. In addition to the pain of incarceration in an inhumane prison system, these men endure the trauma of isolation away from their home country, culture, language and support of loved ones.

I come to this work after years of feminist activism, teaching and research on gender-based violence. A survivor of violence, I am dedicated to actively opposing all forms of degrading and or humiliating treatment.

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The First Four Days

September 7, 2011 2 comments

by Elizabeth Kate Switaj

 I thought there’d be bars in here
but the plexiglass pen doesn’t allow
that sliver dream of privacy or shade
                            as if there were a sun 
  where windows aren’t allowed

The window bars drag patterns on the wood
floor beside my futon
                                    that twist and curl.
Soon I’ll know what time of day I’ve woken up
                               by the fatness of the heart.

 I tell the man who sleeps above me
I didn’t do it
                          he tells me
to get a job in the kitchen
so I can eat the scraps
and buy better soap

         My roommate’s making something spicy.
The wok sizzle seeps under my door.
                 I wait to wash my dishes
until she’s asleep.

 I’d rather have a number than my name
tongue-&-toothed in mouths above blue
polyester draped arms that wear the gloves
No one says they’re innocent
          while they’re being searched in here

No one has said my name in nights
“Chinese delivery.” ”Four-fifty-seven.”
                                      is all I’ve heard
   since he said my name
and Shh. 

 I tell the man who sleeps above me what I’m in for 
He laughs and calls me a BAMF
                                                      Why would I tell him I’m innocent?

 Standard greeting back to work: 
what did you do with this long weekend?
                  Tell them:
                                      rest.        Why would I want to explain 
there’s no point in reporting
crimes you can never prove?

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Since completing her MFA at New College of California in 2004, Elizabeth Kate Switaj (website) has published Magdalene & the Mermaids (Paper Kite Press), Shanghai (Gold Wake Press), and The Broken Sanctuary: Nature Poems (Ypolita Press). She is currently an Editorial Assistant for Irish Pages and a doctoral candidate at Queen’s University Belfast.

I Hear a Bird

September 6, 2011 Comments off

by Daniel Lear

You’ve made it now, out of the low-middle class, all its striving
now nothing to us, see how we forget in lavender
lawns under the sweep of low willows? How is it to you, dear,
this dearly won salvation from the dimestore and the thrift?

Pass the salt in its crystal dish and do not
tip the candlesticks in their slim burning
while I lean careless on the delicate chair, and swig the wine like water
far far down to the dregs, contemplate the cellar yawning
cold beneath us, the dusted bottle racks, the yearning thick, distilled.

One day I said the vagabond life is good enough, but startled
by the sly slide of your eyes I understood the dark taboo,
and stumbled into your mute conviction
that more is always more but never quite enough.

Or were we more in the front seat sweated as ripe plums bruised
and ready for the tear of teeth? all that pure bleeding pure
as my breath in your mouth, a hot hardness against the snow of thighs,
the air scattered with static and a looped tape played.
My nails were bitten down
and all my jeans had holes. I hear a bird

trapped in spiny briars just at the moment you lean near
to slide your fine-pored hand across the linen, it comes to mine
like a well-fed snake into its burrow.

I imagine leaving:

at the last corner past the bank I stop because I have no place beyond this
curb, or yellow paint as warning, or sign leaning on its spindled post
or blank storefront glass half-draped with burlap
no, no place beyond right here and grit beneath my shoes.
Sitting, I become statuesque or granite-lined, or become
west of here perhaps a wider space or east
a narrow gorge, north become the blank tundra never thawing or south the shift and sigh of sand.

None of these becomings more myself than here
unless straight upward is an option despite wingless.

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Daniel Lear writes while attending nursing school and working (elsewhere) on an MFA. He describes himself as “a husband, a dad, a builder, and a farmer. Just the usual stuff.”

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September 2, 2011 2 comments

by Maryam Monalisa Gharavi

All my life I’ve been fighting
Saturn, the keeper of hours:
More accountant than divine,
Perverse minister of irresolute time.

What is an hour? What are four?
The question was submitted to
A bookkeeper of such things.
His cheeks shadowed in reddish rings.

Habits: I try to brick them up
Like a builder of a makeshift shack,
In weather likely to bring doom.
I hang a clock in one unfinished room.

But the wager of our finitude,
Each a custodian of our own
Demise, is a more bearable freight.
Till then—

Let all the world wait.

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Maryam Monalisa Gharavi’s poetry and translation has appeared in Anamesa, Amerarcana: A Bird & Beckett Review, Washington Post and The Dudley Review. Her films have screened at Townhouse Gallery of Art, Pacific Film Archive, Harvard Film Archive, and several festivals. She is translating Syrian-Brazilian poet Waly Salomão’s book Algaravias, and is a doctoral candidate at Harvard University. She blogs at South/South.

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