It takes more than good intentions to transform the South. It takes money.
What the hell is a Scalawag?
There're times I stare at the wire curling above
The fence and think it's almost beautiful,
Shining against the empty sky at night
When the floodlights scan the perimeter
Then pause to frame some frightened cat or deer—
In the old movies it would be a man
Caught in that light, but never one I've seen.
I got this job a year ago last month,
And I'm already looking for another.
I'm like a sheepdog dressed in brown, herding
Inmates to feeding and back to dormitories.
I line them up and count them and tell them
To shut their god-damned mouths, I've had enough.
I carry a gun I never want to use,
Talk a lot tougher than I actually am,
But if I had to shoot or kick some ass
I would in a heartbeat—inmates are scum,
And you can't trust them. They all want something.
They'll con you for a broken pencil stub.
A package of soup or ramen noodles is
Currency here. The books stay in the library,
Or they'd be traded too. I'm searched when I'm
Buzzed in and hear the door click shut, the plastic
Bag with my lunch and bottled water checked
For contraband and anything "excessive."
I work for the state so the benefits are good.
My husband says to stay at least until
I'm pregnant next or he gets his promotion.
He doesn't understand I'm fucking tired.
Last night I heard an owl swoop down and sink
Its claws in something just outside the fence.
I could have sworn the scream had come from me.