This blog comes to us from one of our IF family in the Washington Correction Center for Women, Tonya Wilson–a gifted writer. This poem she wrote, processing her pain, after she was denied her recent bid for clemency.
There’s an emptiness where
the ache used to be
fathomless to my understanding
commonly held blackest midnight confounds me,
with its startling whiteness, blankness
At odds with its perfect clarity is
my inablity to project meaninfulness
Seems to have appropriatesd its old tenant’s
pain. Now, sadness it beckons, eagerly welcomed,
like an old friend.
Is it possible to have more than one life’s sadness,
condensed like common soup?
Mourning, regret, loss, all distilled to the
Dregs of leaden melancholy
This white room of mine. Who’dve thought that pain could be dazzlingly silent like this?
A life ending in the middle of its story
Not all good things come to those who wait
A decade of waiting brings tears and stingingly
Sharp numbness that no amount of crying
Assuaged. I startled at the jagged gash of
sorrow, no rounded corners to this pain, no
Everything winced against its glancing touch.
How does this bottomless well rise up unannounced
Incoherent to the dictates of my desire, this
Pain refuses to be ignored one second longer
Astounding, that the drag of such weight
Did not slow my efforts to negate & mitigate
Its existence. Find meaning in its being, I’m told,
when all I really want is for it to GO.