orange over me
upon still solemn sidewalk
silent under black
My breathing quickens.
the truth is too tight:
innocent men are confined
tortured to death
human-inflected trauma
in the name of national security
The cells of my eyes water what my heart holds.
my love, Jesus, tortured by thorns, nails, cross
laments stab while questions weigh on a helpless body
centuries later the crowds still scream crucify
My bones grind and stiffness sets into sore feet and knees.
prayers are uttered into Mary’s ear, as she knows
secrets of torture techniques told
“feels like drowning two hundred times.”
“hanging by wrists for hours, no sleep.”
“humiliation.”
“dogs.”
“darkness.”
“orders.”
My body shudders with shame.
trying to yell NO the over-used too-old sign bares challenge:
let it close, it needs to end.
sorrow looks through cloth pores
there, no dignity
here, fashions rush by wasting fast food, texting into cellular phones
ignoring the pain of the ugly orange body
I don’t understand.
upon still solemn sidewalk
silent under black
My breathing quickens.
the truth is too tight:
innocent men are confined
tortured to death
human-inflected trauma
in the name of national security
The cells of my eyes water what my heart holds.
my love, Jesus, tortured by thorns, nails, cross
laments stab while questions weigh on a helpless body
centuries later the crowds still scream crucify
My bones grind and stiffness sets into sore feet and knees.
prayers are uttered into Mary’s ear, as she knows
secrets of torture techniques told
“feels like drowning two hundred times.”
“hanging by wrists for hours, no sleep.”
“humiliation.”
“dogs.”
“darkness.”
“orders.”
My body shudders with shame.
trying to yell NO the over-used too-old sign bares challenge:
let it close, it needs to end.
sorrow looks through cloth pores
there, no dignity
here, fashions rush by wasting fast food, texting into cellular phones
ignoring the pain of the ugly orange body
I don’t understand.
This is the poem that floated through me when I wore a orange jumpsuit and black hood for the first time. I wore the ugly outfit at a vigil in Chicago on June 23rd as an act of solidarity.
so beautifully expressed, julia, and with poetry that links you to the writing of the men themselves whose loudest voice seems to be the most lyrical thanks to Mark Falcoff's collection of poems from Guantanamo.
ReplyDelete