A cracked egg seeps for me. Proof in the sun rays. Those dusty bars. I dance in them because I'm a child and haven't ruined my freedom yet.
Scattered shells congeal. Dreams out on parole. Uncle sits in our living room waiting to be logged and collected. Mommy is mad. They say that was your confinement! But it won't crack easily.
We visit him inside Livingston. The procession is already fraught. Mommy wears a sleeveless blouse. Beautiful long skirt. So the guards turn us away. (Could provoke the men.) Here men like my uncle wear cotton white and form a single desire. But it's not for sex.
We go back. It's a hot Christmas. We raid the vending machine for blessings. Is this enough? It better be. We move outside to find the sunlight. But it's not really Outside. It's a yolk.