Shared space #3
By Brandon Astor Jones
"The vilest deeds like prison weeds
Bloom well in prison air:
It is only what is good in man
That wastes and withers there ..."
Oscar Wilde, from The Ballad of Reading Gaol
This is the third in a series of four poems that I feel the need to share here. In essence this space will belong to the author of each poem, for the duration of the series. It is my hope that readers will be as moved by them as I am.
Mail Call
By Stephen A. Mobley
A bottle, washing upon the shore.
I rush to it. Discover a note inside: "We miss
you. We love you. Tell us what you need. What it
is that you want."
Colors. Send leaves from trees of Autumn's
gold, petals of red from Spring's flowers, and
blades of Summer's tall, green grass from home.
I build ships, a fleet of ships to ferry word of
my wants, and set them to sail. I wait, and while
waiting, the seasons change.
A bottle, washing upon the shore.
I run to it. Retrieve the note inside: "Apologies
for the delay. Been busy. (Doesn't elaborate.) Miss and
love you. Let us know what we can do."
Books. Send books with pictures — colored pictures
of trees, of flowers in bloom and blades of grass.
I build a ship to ferry word of my wants, and set
it to sail. I wait, and while waiting, new seasons come,
then go ... then come and go again.
A bottle, washing upon the shore.
I trot to it. Fumble to free the note inside: "Been
a wild time on this end. (Details, please! ...) Hope you're
well. Think of you often. Do you need anything? Let us
know what you want."
Images. Paint pictures with words. Tell me how the moon-
light slips through the trees, settling on the flowers and grass like
ash from a distant fire.
I build a boat, scrawl my wants into its side, and set it to
sail. I wait, and while waiting, the seasons lose distinction ...
blurring.
A bottle, washing upon the shore.
I stumble to it. Am too tired to shake the note free.
Luckily, I know what it says.
Hope, Give me hope. Draw me pictures of the trees
and flowers and grass. Crayon them like a carnival-colored
guarantee: "Sun will rise or your money back" (minus the
fine print, thank you).
I build a raft, and set it to sail. I wait, and while
waiting, my world turns bleak and gray and begins to rust,
peeling, decaying, deteriorating.
A bottle, washing upon the shore.
I crawl to it. Weak. Disoriented. How dare you
Inquire of my wants, my needs. I reach for the bottle,
Cursing it. I toss it back into the sea.
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns (include your name and full return address on the envelope, or prison authorities may refuse to deliver it). He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G3-63, Georgia Diagnostic & Classification Prison, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA.]