blood-spit sweat stain, a staged acid-alkaline balance.
hands without trace, but heavy with fear. and fingers
shaking: from their gun-metal grip. from the pencil clutched
in a left hand, signing a confession. and later, writing a letter.
but there’s nothing to write home about, and no home to write to.
hindsight is one minute of the minimum angle of resolution, is
regret, is a nightmare on repeat, and you measure time in years lost.
in the fifth petition, we ask a god we don’t believe in to forgive us our
trespasses. but how do you explain to a child what consequence is?
in the interrogation room, there are no great epiphanies,
only eternities to behold. that, and a whispered refrain:
“i didn’t do it.” repeated until you believe it.
______
Natalye Childress (she/her) is a Berlin-based editor, writer, translator, and sad punk. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of the Net and appears or is forthcoming in Querencia Press, Frozen Sea, JAKE, wildness, Anthropocene, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter, Bluesky, or Instagram.
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