for the last time,
tiger lilies sing in shadows
behind barbed wire
prison walls. electrified,
petals halt execution
of orange,
now tired, they wilt to ash
by mistake.
without freedom,
feet shuffle in circles,
dusty.

without the scent of lakewater,
misty, even mildew can
help return his memory
of rain, flowing. he takes his time
to whittle softened soap
bars into swan’s necks,
presses the curve
with his thumb.

inside, it is loud enough to deafen
when there’s no one
to help.
the prisoner comes outside to waltz
only when guards agree.
he crouches down
dirt-level where
wild stems just
beckon
outside walls.

if the body gives up,
it will become a statue
collecting rust like sentences.
a freedom so sweet it’s unsanctified.
to punish him they drag
the tree line out of sight
for good.

he picks up a handful of
the jail’s finest sand,
remembers with fondness
river beds where he lingered.
without leisure
of wet grass on clean feet
there is nothing. he takes his
shoes off in his cell, sprinkling
sand in a circle, and hugs himself,
sways, dances quietly,

the gait of his instep so much closer
than any natural
land
he had laid
claim to.