Doing Time (58 page)

If only I were a wolf,
and not this pathetic
creature called
man,
whose broken, gnarled
teeth snap closed to grief,
too choked by terror
of these deep chested,
guttural emotions that
will devour me whole
if I suddenly let go.

had you planted a tree
to fill in the deep well
of my absence
that tree would be
thirteen springs high
high enough to relieve
the relentless sun of incarceration
strong enough to bear
the weight of children
who might have been born
had I not been seized
from your life and plunged

 

into this acid-washed crypt
and high-wired vigilance
but there is no tree
that stands in my place
to harbor birds and changing winds
perhaps someone will plant
a willow a eucalyptus
or even a redwood
any tree that will
in thirteen years more
bear fruit and provide shelter

Stephen Wayne Anderson (1953–2002)
two days before his execution

What is this we do,
except what was done?
Tomorrow a bright sun burns away
those sullen mists left behind
by vanishing darkness.

 

What is all this,
except an afterthought?
Tomorrow the sun shines
while a sleeping moon dreams
of once again rising.