a mother of stone

Tomas Tranströmer, worked in a juvenile prison in the late 1950's. He wrote a few haiku during that period. A couple of these are to be used as inspiration.

Night — a twelve-wheeler

goes by making the dreams of

the inmates shiver

The boy drinks his milk

and sleeps cozy in his cell,

a mother of stone

ten p.m. — lights go out

the inmates dream their dreams -

a heart on the beach

In the late 1970's and early 1980's the international women’s faith group to which I belonged held a yearly mission study. During the night called ‘Open University’ a group of convicts from the Missouri Women’s Prison were a part of our education. A session of hearing stories and backgrounds struck a chord with me. One of the inmates, a young woman barely 5 feet tall shared she had murdered a man. She had issues with men in general as a result of years of sexual abuse at the hands of her father. Ute was open about her sexual orientation. In prison she had found a love denied her in ‘freedom’.

I began correspondence with Ute. As personal items are not provided in the prison, packages containing soap, hygiene products, stamps and stationary were being shipped to the prison. A couple of other young women in my local organization joined me in purchasing items for Ute. I purchased underclothing from a local store owner and shared to whom I was sending the obviously not my size bras. The store owner, also a member of the same organization, said the inmate was using me. I told her it was not my responsibility to account for Ute’s response, only to live as I felt compelled to do. The store owner shrugged and rang up the sell.

Eventually I stopped the correspondence with Ute due to time issues. The image of that young woman will still float through my mind and I wonder where she is. As for the store owner, she came to my mother in law’s funeral last November. She did not mention Ute. I still think, “but by the grace of God….”

cold concrete walls -

love finds escape in a touch

from cherished hands

a gentle caress

love flows from the fingertips

penal institute

rage finds peace

in the icy iron barred cell

loves healing touch