Today is Friday
and I did everything right this week
I followed the program
like I’m a robot, no brain
except when I had to pretend to use
it in class, dumb shit I already learned
Filling out worksheets and taking practice tests
but in my notebook, I drew myself another world
another opening to other places, other dimensions
and Kadon was right
I needed a crew to sit next to me
to be my four corners so that I’m not cornered
There’s Amir with the locs down his back
Quiet like air, like there’s a heavy secret
behind that silence
There’s Smoke who wears that name
like a bulletproof vestI swear
he can see through people
There’s Rahmarley with the braids
that stick up like antennas and
he thinks he could read people’s minds
and Kadon
I get it now
those white boys don’t see me
and I don’t see them
But I get to see her, though
finally
And she comes into the dayroom
glidingholding something
in her arms—a poster board and markers
I see hersmiling
and I sit up in my seat
smooth out my sweatshirt
smooth down my eyebrows
smooth out all my wrinkles
my mistakes, my mean mug
I’m happy to see you here
she says
even though she doesn’t look happy
Her face is serious, like
she means business
even though she’s teaching poetry
My name is Imani Dawson
and I’m a poet, educator
and activist—
I like to call myself
a prison abolitionist
Prison abolitionist?
I ask
Like in slavery?
So you’re here to free us?
Okay, thenSo my name is
Amaland
I don’t like to call myself a slave
but here we fucking are—
And they laugh at me
Unacceptable, Imani says
Let’s try this again
By calling myself a
prison abolitionist
I mean that I’m part of
a movement
that is fighting to abolish
the prison industrial complex
as we know it
And no, Amal
you are not a slave
None of you are
I’m here to help you
remember that
Amal, inmate
is all I say
Who are you, Amal?
What is your truth?
she asks
I look around, no one has their
eyes on meso I shrug
Everybody was
stumped by that question
when I first asked it to the group
It’s okay, Amal
You have time to think about it
What is your truth?
She turns away
and writes on her poster board
with a blue marker
MISTAKES & MISGIVINGS
Take a sheet of paper out
of your notebook and
fold it in half, she says
without looking back at us
On one side you write
“Mistakes,” on the other side
you write “Misgivings”
My page is still blank
I don’t do what she says
This shit is for kindergarten
Too many questions
too many directions
Where’s your work? she asks
I thought we were just gonna write, I say
You are writing, you have to start
somewhere, Amal
I’m not trying to make
origamiI just wanna write
Oh, so you’re a serious writer
Not like essays or stories, but
just the truth
Truth— Well, let me see what you got
Follow the directions and take it
one word at a time— One word at
a time, Amal—
Mistakes and Misgivings
What I want to say:
What does that even mean?
Why can’t we just write?
Why does everything have to have
rulesdirectionsorder?
We’re already trapped in boxes
why can’t we just be free with this?
What I do:
Crumple the paper and walk
out of the dayroom and toward
my door
The officer with the tattoo—
his name is Beale, but I call him
Tattoo
so that I remember—
tells me to get back
to the dayroom, but I don’t move
Where the fuck do you think you’re going?
he hisses
I stand there in front of my door
waiting for him to pull out the keys
He holds his arm in front of me
and I see that tattoo again
that tattoo again
You go in there, you’ll stay in there
Forty-eight hours minimum
he says, opening the door
and I walk in