Poem by Lynnell Major EdwardsAfter Darkness at Noon
--The cell door slammed behind Rubashov. Interrogation lights and grim weather; the sun when it does shine throbs pale and late above the prison yard and the defectors, shuffling mules around the millstone. Cigarettes are in short supply, and your tooth aches. Six and a half steps across and back the span of your black-tiled cell. The barred window a blessing; a scrap of paper, nub of charcoal appears twice a week and you consider a new thesis. Citizen: this is a mistake. You begin to think your self a singularity, your self , a self with unique purpose and resistance. In the hall at night, foot drag of the damned, and the herald of hands drumming against steel doors, eyes pressed against the peep-holes, the sentence ends when the dull thud of History punctuates the base of the brain. Citizen: the record shows oppositional activity, conversation with known agitators, deviance from Party assignment and a brandy toast lifted in a firelit study. Citizen: here are the letters from your student, here the ticket stub, the flyer, the confession. Citizen: What say you? To the ode tapped on a metal pipe with the rim of your spectacles, thin rhythm insistent as a bird pecking at a nerve, we have instructed no reply: Comrade, are you there? Friend, what news? |
Lynnell Major Edwards’ most recent work is the chapbook Kings of the Rock and Roll Hot Shop (Accents, 2014). She is also the author of three collections of poetry, most recently Covet (October, 2011), and also The Farmer’s Daughter (2003) and The Highwayman’s Wife (2007), all from Red Hen Press. Her short fiction and book reviews have appeared most recently in Connecticut Review, American Book Review, Pleiades, New Madrid, and others. She is Associate Professor of English at Spalding University and also teaches creative writing at the Carnegie Center for Literacy.
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