It was the day he’d long been waiting for:
A one hundred twenty-five-year sentence
Truncated into this day.
The fan overhead spits out bits of sliced moths
Along with pieces of browned grass from nearby
Fields where sand smothers struggling shrubs.
Hanging onto buildings are overgrown succulents,
Solid and thriving on neglect yet still unfettered,
Unlike him.
Freedom: what would it be like? he contemplates.
Would he be able to bed his wife, pounding
A tribe of sons into her softness, or would pesky
Children clamor and crowd out all his wants,
Replaced by their sticky neediness,
Stealing time: his.
Ripping out all that mattered to a man, even
His dignity, are the thieves, my masters, he mocks.
They’ve given him clean clothes and a few shekels
Today, and he’s ashamed of his mewling gratitude
To those who take and give back so little, for whom
Control is everything.
He contemplates life outside, sitting in the pharmacy,
Hearing jokes that spread blotchy flushes downward,
A painful reminder of his long-imprisoned maleness,
Then hearing rehashed schemes opposing occupation,
Sharing forbidden plans of secret operations
Never to happen
Only two hours and the doors will clank open,
Sounds that distort dreams into nightmares,
Barring release.