You come at me with fists
closed rapping, pounding,
blow upon blow upon
my heart asking
why will it not open?
You come at me with eyes
and lips spitting purpose,
duty, performance
action, principle,
right.
How you must know
I am none of this.
How you can know
and yet permit me
entrance
I wonder.
There are days I catch a breath
of freedom, of the air outside,
that breathes there is
a balm in Gilead.
I take that breath with me
when I step back into this chamber.
It lasts a sweet short while,
while the closeness of this tomb
presses it slowly out
from my lungs, too tired
to hold breath.
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