The cell is thirteen and a half by eleven feet. The floor is dirt, and on the really cold mornings last March, i remember being able to see frost on the tiny blades of grass that tried to grow till they realized there was no life in this place. And so they died, leaving us alone.
i can’t speak for Jesus, but often i know that i’ve thought about joining them. Of leaving this small space and coming back up to grow wild in some wondrous open field.
i’ve named this cell Godforsaken, and it bothers Jesus, but he always forgives me when i curse his father. He laughs when i tease him, and sometimes he says just the right thing to ease my troubled mind.
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P-K4 (let’s never speak of this)
I haven’t spoken to him in
twenty years.
He must be old now (as I
believe I will be soon).
He taught me to play when I
was just four. To us,
chess was a means of
communication (for since
birth, I believe, my father
and I have been unsure of our
relationship).
My mother watched us play,
taking snapshots in the
background, always calling it
a foolish game (and she would
never learn to play).
She has a picture of me as a
child with a wooden
knight clenched between
my teeth (mocking victory).
I never won, though.
He wouldn’t allow it.
Still I returned to the table
the next day, because it
was not abuse.
(It was my oxygen.)
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