Cell 124

Demetrius Buckley

I decided to grow a tree in my cell,

plant a seed under my pillow, in the cup

placed on the bars,

next to the footlocker.

My thought’s the dirt

dreams shovel in image, pixel

flashing a commerical break

brick and steel tap like

limbs rubbing along the years.

ring developing trunk.

My neighbor explains the rules

and regulations for this type of thinking, maybe

a trimming down or investing in a leafblower–

or something. Your mess

is overflowing on my yard.

Lilles array on my pillowcase

as insects nest and feed on worry

like dead leaves.

(They give out tickets for this

kind of wondering, put you in the hole

for having so much going on. So be cool)

In segregation

I redirect root to what made me,

contraband tweeting and chirping

and banging against brick

which first seems to be

a type of suicide

but as I watch closely

turns out to be ignorance

born in captivity

I fear ir getting worse everyday,

vines intertwining and jamming the doors close

An officer drinks from a stream

flowing out of my cell,

comes back the next day

perched like prey in the open hollow hall

lapping up prison water flowing

down the broken steps, the officer’s eyes

sighing at a distance, almost

like praying eyes staring

deep into a holy hallelujah. I don’t know

if I need to cut or trim,

shape this denseness of trees,

vines and laurels; dust, sand and rock.

Ashes and matter, this Eden

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What do you think “Cell 124” is about? What do you think “Eden” represents in terms of the prison cell space? What do you make of the bit about the corrections officer?Here’s the writer’s explanation: “Is exactly about physical space of prison, but I have to grow into these areas I frequently visit, mentally. It begins with the tree I planted (meaning a plan to grow outside of prison) which for me is my typewriter or a new avenue for writing, causing trouble to which I have to be relocated and sometimes people don’t like people growing out of their ordinary defeated ways: misery really loves company — and the last stanza is my favorite part. The stream flowing from my cell is my published work, a CO coming across my writings and asking me how I did it, and in his eyes he’s baffled because, to him, I’m just another no-good nigga. The trimming is of my being, a dimming of light, what I may have to cut.” –Demetrius Buckley