I never grew to be as tall
as my first handlers had hoped. Still,
for what I lacked in size and strength,
I more than made up for in resilience.
A mildewed rag absorbs both blood and screams
as my shoulder is shoved back into place. This place
is so unlike the desert which I once called
home—never dry, nor warm nor bright.
I practice writing my old name in the strange condensation
which eternally clings to these concrete walls. At all hours,
men are screaming.
I myself am no longer a person, but a battleship. A gun.
Violence is the only thing that sticks to my ribs.
I keep the pale rider busy as ever since they broke
my fingers into tombstones. I collect the teeth
of my conquests. I do not blink.
Freedom, like other drugs, is so good
it has a certain taste. I can’t remember it now,
but I bet it has an effervescent quality,
like those fancy flavored waters. Imprisonment
tastes metallic. Like blood. Like rusting wire
holding your jaw together.
If I ever get off of this forsaken island, I will
wash myself in gasoline. I will flay this place
from my flesh. I will find a kind, soft woman
for my own. I’ll hold her every night.
I’ll never utter a Cyrillic syllable
ever again. I will forget.
Cierra Lowe-Price, 2023