Composition of a Year

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.

 

Months

a psychedelic

kaleidoscope

as she has progressed and faltered

spun dizzyingly outward and in.

 

Past blurred and future undefined,

a year distant

she authors her survival.

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