Every time I exit this building,
barbed wire presents itself throughout
every length of space.
Corrections officers with Mini-14 assault rifles
surround me in six different windows and towers —
that’s six different shots from six different angles.
Transforms a corrections officer into a murderer instantly.
A bare minimum of area is what I can roam,
from point A to point B and back.
The brief adventure is far from fresh air.
Two minutes across this field destroy
the freshness of my clothes — a foul aroma
from the recreational yard’s contaminated soil.
As I prepare to enter this cage again,
red signs on the walls inform me
there’s no warning shots at all.
It feels like self-inflicted earthquakes;
I’m on the brink of death.
Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.