Bet you thought there was no such thing as too kind. I can’t write it into this poem without admitting kindness is a synonym for “too close” when its nectared syllables sap these prison walls. O Kindness,

lotus flowering muddy waters, I can’t call on your greening nature, your bloom that fruits into song, into breath, in a place rotting under unnatural light,

where a staff member who’s friendly toward inmates is slurred a “murder groupie,” asked if they’ve hugged their thug today,

where they are disciplined for embracing the blues out of an inmate, compassioning the self back into the self. I remember when humanness lived inside me like a community garden, every visitor welcome & nourished in their coming & going, all those bright hues— but my body has become a border.

I’ve let knapweed root & wrangle what no longer will grow.