In prison I thumb

The Agony and the Ecstasy.

 

At the hour of rite,

I turn Michelangelo face-down,

offer Maori woman and child

coffee without violence,

biscuit with no ice terror;

we do not discuss their crimes.

 

For one hour a week,

the ordinary and the unthinkable,

unchiseled skin and ta moko.

 

They do not know or care of Florence

who are the Medicis, anyway?

yet it breaks my heart when he leaves,

her babe in his arms,

and tears cloud her marble eyes

highly grained, low grade.

 

First published in The Miscreant, Issue 9C, 2016

 

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