December at Faribault Prison
Michael Torres
When the evening sky loses
its blue, the dead trees are only that.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽We become what
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽we endure. I left
every homie, every person I loved. Five years ago.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽Today
I study maps. Routes to return me. How odd, the necessity
of this venture: the unending study
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽of the past鈥檚 magnitude.
And yet: each of us carries a kind of scale.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽Once a week
I gather in a room full of men who measure
the lives they wanted
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 鈥攁nd still want鈥�
by writing it down, men who do not know
they remind me of nicknames and handshakes
from back home. Despite this or because of it
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽we laugh.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽We talk poetry, and do not
bring up how we got here.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 Beyond, a barbed fence carves the wind
countless. Only snow enters unquestioned鈥攚ithout ID,
metal detection, hand stamp鈥�
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽parachuting through
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 cyclones of razor wire.
How solemn each blade
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽must be. After class
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 I want nothing
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 more
than to stray from my escort鈥檚 side. His baton
and badge.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 I understand the infraction.聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽And yet
I imagine my glove tossed,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽so that I may graze one blade
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽with an index finger
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 warm and crowded
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 with my blood.
鈥淒ecember at Faribault Prison鈥� began around this time last year, while I travelled through a gray Minnesota winter on an airport shuttle. I was headed home for the holidays and found myself staring out at the landscape, thinking about friends and life and all the things poets think about. I鈥檇 just finished my first term teaching creative writing at a state prison. On that shuttle, I thought about the men in my class, how much they reminded me of boys I grew up with, and the weight of that realization. For some reason, I couldn鈥檛 get the image of the prison building out of my thoughts. It had intimidated me each week for fifteen weeks. No matter how much I believed I was reaching my students through poetry, when each class ended, they鈥檇 walk one way and I another. I would feel angry, sad, and helpless every time my escort walked me through the ribbon-wired gates.
was born and brought up in Pomona, California, where he聽spent his adolescence as a graffiti artist. His work has appeared or is forthcoming聽in Ploughshares, The Sun, and Water~Stone Review, among others. He has received聽grants from the Minnesota State Arts Board and the Jerome Foundation.聽A CantoMundo Fellow and VONA alum, Torres has been a finalist for the Jake聽Adam York Prize and a semi-finalist for the A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize. Currently聽he teaches creative writing at Minnesota State University, Mankato and through聽the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop.