In the Segregation Unit
I ask to see you,
they look at me like Iíve got religion
or some unwanted disease,
still after all these years they refuse
to believe I am not one of them.
You want to go in there, see her?
You want me to unlock that door?
There are no mango trees in segregation,
no limbs growing into each other
there is only separation
you raise your eyes to greet me
then down at the cardboard potty on
the concrete floor, down
to your fancy dress strip-gown.
You cannot offer me a bed to sit on
or tea or mango juice.
There is only stone and the window so
high we might as well be far out in deep
space, the caged light our spaceship,
with its film of dead, black flies.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Avril Joy would be
pleased to hear them.