Rachel MacDonald
Observations at a Boys’ Prison in Jamaica
Here are no jumpsuits,
no orange-streak guilty,
no crease between out
and in,
where shadow-thick heat
beats the zenless walls, that
chip-shot blue cinderblock,
and thorn-cropped wire
crowns the yard, screaming
got you, we got you,
we got you.
Here are the boys named
convict, the captured child kings,
tomcat captains of Caribbean
alleys, orphaned princes of symbiosis,
the lords of pot, port sweepers,
lost boys of Odysseus sailing
dirt street ways, land locked
and ready, for bread, for
the father’s return.
Here are the skinny gods
with proud backs and thick
knuckles, blue bruises on
still-soft cheeks,
motherless sorcerers with
glacial eyes, freezing
us in awe of their gaze,
got you, we got you,
we got you.