Life is a concrete room. Small toilet. Scratched walls
covered with ugly letters from someone unnamed,
gone. Did dampness take them,
losing them in this cement? What could be worse
than separation from the guy next door,
walls that shackle talk?
Is this the fate of us who shout,
sing, recite, agitate, dance? Ocean prison,
no windows to watch pelicans and whales,
San Francisco’s brown hills that leap towards green
when April’s storms swim by?
We lucky ones will stay outside.
Our freedom demands our minds join you,
beaten, silenced, raped, left without pencils
and walking shoes, nights when sleep is slashed
from your grasp, days with water along your lungs,
neighbors with bullets for eyes, guards whose hands
are warm fangs. World with no darkness or silence
whose wishes are blank.
Let’s make campfires from dreams when you fear
and dig a tunnel out.
FOR AI WEI WEI