THE POLITICAL PRISONER. HIS SOLO.

3 22 38 Anna bei Gestapo.

I have eaten my heart in the public johns.

The taste of a stone. Like cigarette butts.

Just as soon as I swallowed it down it would start to toss itself up.

Like what it is like when they come for you.

If I could learn you all that I know.

The tile patterns. The random seeding of burnt matches during the long waits.

The age of hands.

The beauty deducted from shoes.

The cough. The cigarette. The drumming of heels.

Then the ticking of the belt buckle. Dicing sounds of

teeth being lowered into a pocket.

Last the palsy of shadows blobbing under the door as if struck with unspoken uncontrollable jokes.

I have read all the messages that were left.

I interpreted all the terrible stains.

I am writing my answers on the frail square papers.

I hold them under the partitions for passersby to take.

I crumple them to throw over the wall hoping the wind

won't throw them back.

My pencil cuts through and leaves grey lines on my

naked leg.

I scrub the lines clean with spit and find they have gone into the skin and turned blue.

one

Gail Chugg

28