I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang

Blinded by freedom and without morals,
unable to follow orders, family
a partially digested memory,
I have left the problem known as people.

The past comes on as illness—
how we twisted together, clanked ankles
and smelled like heat. Depraved, rubbing
sand in the palms of our hands, from above
our line writhed like De Havilland’s snake pit.

Now I have become my own prisoner,
drinking from a bowl of river water,
playing with the head of an axe.
Where does kindness come from? Not here.