Roll Call

poetry

photo by Tito at Unsplash

I turned a doorknob
with my left hand. First time
since the bone break.

Cheerful at last under codeine
and cast, a book of the Gulag
pillow propped.

The jailed poets learned
English on pages
of toilet paper.

Hard labor for storytelling,
the dissenters construct fairy
castles to house their hope.

Soon I will clasp a necklace,
the sling as long forgotten
as pepper spray in my face.