When the hammer strikes the head of the chisel
I imagine the muffled shot ringing out down the
cellblock. I picture myself squatting, waiting, listening
for the guards’ heavy horizontal footfalls on the steel
gangway just the other side of these vertical bars. And
only when I am certain that the sound has not pierced
the uncertainty of their poker hands do I deliver the
second blow and wonder how to breach the steel laced
deep within this concrete. But the purpose of today is
not to evade the probing searchlights of the towers, or to
defeat the perimeter fence, not to make it to the border
before the dogs taste my scent. Today is simply the day
to remove these tiles, to force this blade, to watch the fractured
shards fall into the tub. Such a day could even be my season
in hell, where each created space is instantly filled by
another, appearing exactly in its place.
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