The Prisoner’s WifeJohn Murillo
To run fingernails across his shoulder blades I have to lay way back, let him hear my voice first, Make some kind of sound, make sure he’s awake. It’s been this way since he’s been back in the world. I have to lay way back, let him hear my voice. First Time I reached for him in bed, in the dark, I learned. It’s been this way since he’s been back. In the world Of makeshift shanks, cell doors clanking after the fact, Times they reached for him in bed, in the dark, he learned To feel fingers before they graze even the skin’s tiniest hairs. Splintered wood and spoons sharpened for next time. The fact That he’s here is a miracle. I’ve waited six years To glaze his fingers. Our skin, shiny hairs, Make some kind of sound. But I make sure he’s awake. That he’s here is a miracle. And I’ve waited six long years. Watch me, tonight, claw wings into his back.
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