I could write you out of prison,
if it wasn’t my prison too.
We dwell on opposite sides of the same wall.
The peephole between us is just out of reach-
there is no feeding of grapes, just dusty
walls penciled with remedies for daydreams.
The overhead stereo spits out love songs
as though there is a drought.
I would write you out of prison,
turn your crimes into misunderstandings,
spin your tales of sex, and sleaze, and booze,
into how bad it had to get,
for you to know when to find me.
My body is an eraser, pink and bendable.
Let’s be as wild as outlaws who run from the rules,
only to realizing that through running
we make our own.
My finger is on the trigger of the pen.
The ink bleeds in automated questions-
do you remember how to be free,
when your wrists have grown ripe, in handcuffs?
I should write you out of prison.
published 6 October 2011