C.O.

C.O., Santa Fe Youth and Development Center, I followed your rules, paid

penance for my mistakes, though you have taken every symbol and paño

declarations, that, at one point, proved that I was free,

when I listened to no queen or king older than me;

Irrational authority, now I see it is a mere flip of a Roman coin

that tosses one into the revolving door, an escalator,

hand-waist-ankle shackles of scheduled arraignments.

The door, impenetrable, closes far quicker than it opens,

when once, my sleepy green eyes believed they saw a great plain

or ocean on the horizon. Then you, C.O.,

taught me the mirage. Now the mesa is framed, disjointed

by three turquoise-painted, peeling window bars

you thump and rubber-mallet every morning, though I haven't chiseled

or loosened them, I pray you don't find out what is in my mind

as you pause to watch me

and my bunk-mate, Carmelita, pretending not to wake.

Bing. Bang. Bong.

We are still sleeping. We are still young.

I read the only book in the library, The Book, as they say in the South,

where there is an index for every infliction of the soul or conscience. I turn

to “desperation” to silence the sound your brick boots make as you case

the pod.

Bing. Bang. Bong.

I am not sleeping. I am still young.

C.O, we ran a few schemes past you, Cabron! Camelita with three cigarettes

tucked inside her French braid. Her mother was cool. She left her needles

behind after she was escorted to Grants, pine cones embedded

in the dirt-floor bedroom our teen-team used as a refuge. Barefooted,

I stepped on one while the boys were laughing at the malted-yellow

piss-pool they made in the kitchen. Pull it out slowly.

Fuck the 40 ounce. We got 64s with handles!

Bing. Bang. Bong.

The car was not stolen. It was her mom's.

Carmelita would never escape, but I guess you always knew, C.O.

I finally found her again in a file while doing community service at Municipal

Court:

Carmelita Lopez was apprehended after responding to a complaint,

She was seen walking down Agua Fria Street with a baby

crying and dangling from her arms.

Visibly intoxicated, crying. Stated she was three months

pregnant and running away from her boyfriend.

A sobriety test was  conducted

registering 0.17 B.A.C.

I can picture Carmelita beginning to swell in her first trimester,

the mound rising up from her pelvis cage like a goathead.

Soon the child will be kicking and tumbling toward the forceps. I see her

searching

as I was searching

for someone to feel the tomb growing inside...

Bing. Bang. Bong.

She was escaping. Tracks down her arms.

Bend down and cough. Here are your beige clothes and caution-orange

zapatos. Are you currently on any medications? What drugs do you use?

Steel bed, canvas mat, a concrete box with a sliver of sight.

I can't breathe, C.O.—just push the tray through the slot, no jokes.

A criminal corporation, CCA: “America's leader in partnership corrections.”

Catered by ARAMARK: “providing award-winning

food services, facilities management.”

Canned whole tomatoes I plunge my finger

into like The Big Bang. Bulbs exploding, spewing red pulp across our faces

and the walls—

At one time these stories were fun. We sang with viking ships in our hearts,

beat Cypress Hill drums on the cold metal table we padded with wire blankets.

Boom-boom, tap. Boom-boom, tap,

correcting each others' lyrical misinterpretations, playing queens, 3-5-7.

They're sending me to Burque, I complained. Y.D.D.C.

“It's just like Disneyland without the rides,” Carmelita said,

but it was not.

That night the door switch-locked, Carmelita pulled the cigarettes

out of her braid and we reveled in the brilliance of her plan.

Our giggles and perfected looped exhalations, however, never rose  orange sky.

Instead, smoke-signal rings blew like kisses through the central air system

directly to the vent above the control center, the switchboard, just for you, C.O.

After extended lockdown and a 10-day contraband reprimand,

you banned us from commissary and chose for me a new roommate, that ginger

ax-murderer from Duke City. Grandmother,

Grandfather, how could she?

Bing. Bang. Bong.

I will try sleeping. Are killers still young?

C.O., I knew of the rapes and pregnancies, the B.O.Ps

Mexican-born, Bureau of Prisoners, whatever that means,

other than older than me...

21, sent back with five dollars, toothbrush and a coach seat.

We all dueled based on race and associations,

but you denied us all toilet paper, those elephant tampons,

tore apart our complaints

to the Warden; we were nothing but panty-liners, paychecks printed on burlap,

serving time, your crescent purple hickies, your spies at shower time

just to keep an eye on the razor—one at a time, but I dressed like a boy,

so you would leave me

alone.

You loved to slither around the pod like a water moccasin.

to catch us on the toilet, to see us scream and jump up,

struggling with our layers of elastic bands, pulling up our saggy pants.

Some of us kissed each other, C.O. Carmelita kissed you,

the gavel, the handle, the strong.

Bing. Bang. Bong.

I am not sleeping. I never was young.