Correctional
Good Lord, so you finally found me in jail, strutting up as some bigass motherfucker
during grub time then grunting, Gimme all your butter. Share— Don't hurt
yourself. I said, Fuck you. Go on a diet. So you slammed me
gainst the chapel's door. I saw you through the pen's TV mounted high
above us in those constant reruns of that stupidass reality show
American Pickers— where we follow as you stroke your beard and work
through people's trash, scouring for every discarded, yet valuable, creation.
I stuffed my ears with toilet paper, scanned for pitiful finds: found you
in my bunkmate's back tattoo that said, I'm with Stupid (with an arrow
pointing up); saw you in the face of the only white inmate, the most handsome,
withdrawing on the only crapper then tipping over, face-first,
into the piss on the floor. As though in prayer. I'm not ready to surrender, man.
I feel most blessed high in prison. Your stench covered everything:
dozen men penned, unventilated, farting out bad cafeteria canned
hotdog weenies; the guards covered their noses during count-ups;
I heard you in their gags. You called out constantly: like when I was whacking it
in the shower and you shouted from the toilet to finish so you could shit.
I told you to either suck me off or hush— that you always seem
to ruin the moment; like seeing you in the dark crevice of the white guard's
breasts, overly-exposed gainst regulation, as she pinched her nose,
You rankass fa***ts. She tisked as my bunkmate said, B***h, you love
to hate us. The starkest truths have a dark light in them. Like hearing you
in the youth counselor's shitty raps bout how he learned his lesson,
didn't wanna do bad no more, after decking that white kid who shot him first
with the no-no word. Like hearing you in the video he and I watched together
in the processing tank: Please fill out a pink slip if you are sick
or injured. Fill out a purple slip if you are raped. How to avoid
being raped: avoid everyone . How others attempt to rape:
showing compassion. They'll expect favors in return —like penetration.
Handcuffed and escorted into the pen, he and I quit smiling at each other,
kept a safe distance; and shuffling past the guard station, I saw you
in the empty bins—where the purple slips should've been; heard you
in my lawyer's patronizing billable calls, Good news, Boss: judge's dropping the charges
—just pay that 7 grand to my office. But also, there's a small virus
clogging the courts— libs are even considering a city-wide lockdown—
ha, soon we'll have it bad as you—so, Boss, you won't be out Sunday like they promised.
Buck up. Don't breathe. And I peered at the TV for some news,
but they only wanted us watching you clearing out trash in American Pickers.
You appeared in my 4am visions of finally being surrounded by others just like me,
who've been used and scrapped just like me, and yet, being at my loneliest.
I startled—to twelve other Brown and Black faces above my bunk—but
they were all really just yours as they choked me for sleep-shouting;
I felt your touch as they smashed me gainst the steel door, as that strange breeze
stroked my cheek when the gate gasped open, as the guards dragged me
into solitary confinement; I even felt you in my last sad chuckle at having just had
my worst nightmare only to wake into far worse. Forgotten.
Like when I got thrown into my father's closet and saw
there's nothing to protect me but my own darkness as you battering-rammed
into the room, shooting your searchlight, tackling him onto my Hot Wheels track
—like you heaved me into this concrete coffin. This time, I gave up
even on myself —look where I'd gotten. I only cried out that first
black day; the last two, I cried inward, cursing myself, for being forgotten.
Led by a chain back from the hole, I blinked the whole way out,
until I saw you in the faces of the dozen other dark men rising.
And as I lay back into my bunk, I tried ignoring you everywhere you were; tried
sleeping, only to fear crying out again; tried staying awake, only for the light
to start collapsing. Good Lord, I've tried so hard to ignore you, but still,
you force yourself upon me. Well—your shadows encircling my bunk,
and my fists finally relaxing— come on then.
JAVIER SANDOVAL grew up in the Chihuahuan Desert of Mexico and studied under Forrest Gander and John Wideman at Brown. He now teaches at the University of Alabama where he also served as Poetry Editor of Black Warrior Review. His own work has appeared in Narrative, swamp pink, Gulf Coast, Indiana Review, and Massachusetts Review among others, and his chapbook, Blue Moon Looming (CutBank Books), was recently reviewed by José Olivarez as 'poetry for the unruly, and yes, the brilliant among us.' But mostly, he loves to smoke on the stoop with his lady.
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