1F (A poem about a women’s open air pod)

We occupy 48 beds, two rows of 12 times two.
The prisoners are constantly changing, coming and going, coming back.
Our punishments don’t equal the crime, our futures are uncertain.
We are mothers, daughters, wives, sisters and aunts thrown together.
It was not our choice, we were classified alike.
We all have different personalities, we have many different circumstances.
We don’t wear our own clothes, they were worn by others.
These aren’t my shoes, they don’t even fit my feet.
We don’t sleep in our own bedding, we don’t own our towels.
We have no possessions, nothing is ours, not even our freedom.
No control of our schedule, no control of our meals.
Our lights stay on, we have no doors, no privacy.
Don’t look at my body; don’t look at her body.
Lock down after breakfast, lunch and supper, stay in bed.
Day after day goes on like this, same schedule, same routine.
Each day is like the one before and the one after.
Days melt into weeks, and weeks into months.
Anxiety from the outside world creates uncertainty and fear.
Can I go home? When am I going home? Where is home?
We desperately want our freedom, but we are currently safe here.

If you would consider a small donation to my legal fund it would be greatly appreciated.



2 thoughts on “1F (A poem about a women’s open air pod)

  1. Thank you for sharing this with us. I can’t imagine the horror of having your freedom stripped for so long. I’m so glad to hear you’re home now.

  2. Thank you Penny. It was a complete shock, especially when I didn’t do anything “wrong” to be treated unjustly. My only crime was that I didn’t have all of the restitution against my case paid. (which someone else was liable too, but I was an easy target.) It makes no sense to take somebody away from their families, lives, jobs, and homes to jail them for not paying money fined against them. It makes perfect sense, doesn’t it? (Insert sarcasm here.)

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