It is windy today. A wall of wind crashes against, <br />windows clunk against, iron frames <br />as wind swings past broken glass <br />and seethes, like a frightened cat <br />in empty spaces of the cellblock. <br /> <br />In the exercise yard <br />we sat huddled in our prison jackets, <br />on our haunches against the fence, <br />and the wind carried our words <br />over the fences, <br />while the vigilant guard on the tower <br />held his cap at the sudden gust. <br /> <br />I could see the main tower from where I sat, <br />and the wind in my face <br />gave me the feeling I could grasp <br />the tower like a cornstalk, <br />and snap it from its roots of rock. <br /> <br />The wind plays it like a flute, <br />this hollow shoot of rock. <br />The brim girded with barbwire <br />with a guard sitting there also, <br />listening intently to the sounds <br />as clouds cover the sun. <br /> <br />I thought of the day I was coming to prison, <br />in the back seat of a police car, <br />hands and ankles chained, the policeman pointed, <br /> “See that big water tank? The big <br /> silver one out there, sticking up? <br /> That’s the prison.” <br /> <br />And here I am, I cannot believe it. <br />Sometimes it is such a dream, a dream, <br />where I stand up in the face of the wind, <br />like now, it blows at my jacket, <br />and my eyelids flick a little bit, <br />while I stare disbelieving. . . . <br /> <br />The third day of spring, <br />and four years later, I can tell you, <br />how a man can endure, how a man <br />can become so cruel, how he can die <br />or become so cold. I can tell you this, <br />I have seen it every day, every day, <br />and still I am strong enough to love you, <br />love myself and feel good; <br />even as the earth shakes and trembles, <br />and I have not a thing to my name, <br />I feel as if I have everything, everything.<br /><br />Jimmy Santiago Baca<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/cloudy-day-7/
