I. chambered

emerging from an ink-filled
womb – that’s how it feels:  the visitation

room is a quarter mile from death row
down steep half-dark corridors

except the last chamber-locked hallway
whose walls consist of frosted plexiglas panels

ablaze with light from outside.
as if protesting my arrival, the last pneumatic

sallyport door shrieks
and the guards and i flinch

and stumble down the hall.  blinking rapidly
i wonder,

as dazzled as they are, whether my eyes
will be able to hold yours.

II. churning

my heart feels like my eyes,
hot and bloodshot with nerves
and excitement.  it’s been a long time

since I’ve been anything
more than a foggy thought
or disembodied voice

on the phone to those i love.  i marvel
at my callused hands, how blurry they are
speed-shuffling cards i smuggled into the  booth.

Kat, there’s so much i want to show you!
(like the symbol i designed by combining the marks
beside our signatures:  your paw print, my peace sign)

but first i need you to see me
perform a magic trick
to reconcile the illusive conflict

between Fate and Free Will:  how it’s possible
that privilege and poverty marked us early
enough to make our past lives

and the paths we chose from there
seem almost completely other
to each other – yet both our souls

and hearts in recent months sensed the irresistible
power of agapé and poetry
seeming to churn and turn

the very earth and stars
beneath our feet, to bring us
here, as kindreds.

III. luminosity

and there you are, pushing the door
shut behind you, smiling prettily in anticipation.
we greet each other from feet away.
you take your seat and frown

at the plexiglas between us, the bars,
squinting and muttering something like,
“It’s a little hard to see your face – the light
coming in behind me

is making me see my own reflection.”
having been down here before, this hindrance
isn’t new to me, but to hear your frustration,
to witness your shifting and determination, the poet

in me thinks, you are the perfect embodiment
of empathy, the effort it takes to see
past ourselves to an other.  the moment
your gaze clicks into mine

i feel my blood thrum and body harden
into a real human being.  “There you are!” you say,
sounding so delighted
to see me, i struggle not to cry.

IV. luminaries

i think, fuck
my trick for a minute
as we start sharing skin and ink.  i unbutton
this red jumpsuit, slip it to my waist.
i remove my shirt to show you LOVE
NEVER FAILS tattooed in sturdy letters
across my chest.  you lift up your shirt
sleeve to show me the plump sugar
skull on your upper arm.  we compare
sprinkles of moles that appear in similar spots
on our bodies:  forehead, cheek, neck, collarbone, so close
to the glass our breath smokes against it.
by the time i remember the cards
there’s no real need for tricks or explanations,
and it feels irreverent to use magic
to describe the miraculous –
that we met;
      that you drove for hours
          to spend minutes with me
          in a suffocating prison visitation booth;
     that throaty laugh – how
when we speak it feels like freedom
in my mouth, how
with you i feel
                                                i’m home.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  George Wilkerson lives on Death Row. He is an accomplished poet and writer with a unique style and a solid commitment to his craft. I know when I see a submission from George, I am in for a treat, and I am grateful to be able to share his work. He is consistent, he is original, he is thought-provoking. He is only an occasional contributor to WITS because he is working on his own book projects, and he is also a co-author of Crimson Letters. To enjoy more of George’s work, visit katbrodie.com/georgewilkerson/.

Mr. Wilkerson can be contacted at:
George T. Wilkerson #0900281
Central Prison
P.O. Box 247
Phoenix, MD 21131

He can also be contacted via textbehind.com