Five.
She is carrying my madness and I dread her.
Avoid her when I can.
She walks along IS-93 howling in her bare feet.
She is number 6375411 in a cell block in Arkansas,
and I dread what she is paying for that is mine.
She has fallen asleep at last in the battered women's
safe house, and I dread her dreams that I also dream.
If never I become exposed or confined like this,
what am I hiding?
Oh, sister of nausea, of broken ribs, of isolation.
What is this freedom I protect?
How is it mine?