She’s not God, really
But she acts like it
and they put her in charge
of us here
She asks questions
says stuff
and she writes down
what we do and say into her little computer
And all that gets sent to the real God here
The judge
So I sit up in the chair
across from Cheryl-Ann Buford
and say
I write poetry and I paint, too
That’s all I wanna do
I just wanna do my time and—
I don’t know if y’all give a fuck about
that, but—if I write and draw and paint
maybe I’ll get out of here alive
My voice cracks and my throat is dry
She looks at me as if I have two heads
and says
What on earth makes you think that
you won’t get out of here alive, Amal?
Think about the fact that we offer
a creative writing class
And yes, if you want to paint or draw
you can do that, too
But there are rules, young man
With all the officers we’ve got around here
do you think we need more?
No, I say, swallowing hard
She leans over her table
like I’m about to snitch
Did something happen to you
to make you feel unsafe, Amal?
Because if something did happen
to you, we’ll have to report it
No, I say really fast
Nothing happened