THE GHOST PRISONER

I wait outside his cell–
his bleak, windowless block–
and listen for the sounds of movement:
shuffling,
scratching,
the shaking of shackles.
His voice,
an icy breath of air,
every so often
vibrates the pale cement
between us,
that pale cement which gives
my back repose.
I wait outside his cell,
the nudeness of his form
pressing inward from behind my eyelids,
his skeletal limbs
outstretched, clawing.
Abstract victims of his
strip-search lie discarded
back at the gate to the labyrinth.

Will the neighbors hear his screams?
Will their curiosity drag them from their shelters,
across the desert,
to our doorstep?

He was here before I knew this place existed,
before I was appointed to this graveyard shift.
When I started,
the old guard walked out
with boots heavier than tanks;
his lips didn’t part
nor his eyes stray.

When a widow,
face shrouded in shadow,
approached me one
molten afternoon,
her eyes reminded me of that old guard,
human but absent.
She stood before me for some time
until I finally noticed her hand was
clenched,
but slowly unfolding
like the pedals of poppies,
where for a pistil
she palmed a key.

When its jagged steel teeth
bit into my fingers,
the wind unraveled her dress,
dropping it to reveal not even umbrage.
I wait outside his cell.