In that Stretch Armstrong way
that time moves
the year has scampered and caterpillared
since she stepped beyond the prison grounds.
Since the Feds bestowed their twin parting gifts:
a final strip search
to assert their dominance
as, if there had been anything worth
smuggling OUT of prison,
it would certainly not have been
vaginally secreted, rather than
packed in her bag, unmolested
awaiting her in the inmate-driven van;
paired, of course, with the obligatory
“Hey shawty” catcalled offensive
of a faceless male inmate
presumptively staking his claim
to her sweatpant- disguised curves.
Dueling final assaults showered
upon determined bewildered
footfalls toward freedom.
as she has progressed and faltered
spun dizzyingly outward and in.
Past blurred and future undefined,
a year distant
she authors her survival.