The clothing they give me
Is ill fitting, of lighter color
Than that of my fellow inmates.
I look, at first, like a lifer
—Like I’m “good at this.”
My hardened comrades—
They know how soft I am.
If only a young photographer
Would take my photo for a school project,
Or the calendar of a humanitarian organization.
I would give her my grave face
With this clothing on,
And she would take the surface of me
For a grand truth.
My naïve female photog would not know
How little I really do know
Of this enclosed and enforced space,
This cruel world’s cactus suppository.