Sentencing

I

God has descended,
the jail door has opened,
and I am filled with doubt.

II

I am praying again.
Yesterday,
as I approached the frozen reservoir,
the sun's rays reflecting silver,
I crossed myself,
thanking Him.

I listen to Gregorian chants,
but I am often uneasy
with my hours alone.

When I can't steal more of them,
I am afraid
I'll lose myself.

Life, I know,
is no monastery.

III

The bouquet of relativity
still entices,

but I am intoxicated
by a vision and afraid.

IV

On our bedroom wall,
I have hung a cross,

a beautiful cross of seashells,
(now mostly empty patches
of long-dried glue)

and the body of Christ painted gold
(now chipped and tilted,
one nail missing).

My mother says I cried
begging her to buy it,
when I was eight or nine.

V

I am reflecting
on what I am
silence
echoes in my ears,
like the angry phone I unhook
or will not answer.

I listen for a
stranger's voice.

VI

drunk incestuous pessimism
leers at me

and I leer back
knowing that our
breast-pressing loneliness
is what appalls us

corridors of sleep
still beckon
rows of beds
in overheated rooms

I am often tired

VII

Words are insufficient.

VIII

In my drawers,
I find notes
from some of you, words
weary with silence,
unanswered.

I can see your faces,
hear your voices,
pale with reproach.

IX

I fear you will listen,
will understand,
will not respond,
will hope for a change in my condition,

will think of me as
driven.

X

Each of us
has the afternoon
with a light at her desk,
a clock,
and a mind that
turns inward.

XI

My friends write
from jail:

"before each of us lies an option
to either resist with our lives and suffer
the consequences of days, months, perhaps
years in jail cells or to non-resist and
suffer the consequences of a barren future
charred planet, and the bitter
weeping that has long been in our
hearts and finally come to our lips."

XII

I await my trial
for trespass
of a laboratory of death,

I am calm
confused,
I am thinking of sisters in
Mexico
Argentina
Chile
Russia
who have suffered alone
unheard
who have disappeared

XIII

My silence
is a prison.
I think
in a new voice.
It is my own
it is someone else's
it is saying
"You may find in prison
your voice.
You may speak."

Suzanne Belote taught literature part time at Bentley College in Waltham, Massachusetts, and was a member of Ailanthus, a peace-witness group in Boston when this article appeared.