EXECUTIONIST

COMING-TO IN JAIL

To awake beyond gates

beneath hallways and bars;

to find you’ve been placed

in some remote gallery,

swathed in remedies –

tips and knuckled of your

fingers surge

with rust. From your head,

like a blue spruce, stem the

weighted excess of

ten thousand happenings

and their flashes. You

lie fetal, plastered to a cot,

hung in emptiness,

suffocating.

Olive Naugahyde adheres

to your back

like paste, a residual

collage of magnets.

Brian Janisse (Apr. ‘18) details the experience further. “After my brother’s psychotic break, when he was safely in jail, I tried to put myself in his shoes (or rather, his county appointed flip-flops.)”

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