XX. How To Suffer Politely: The Blueprints of Descent.

When they come for me

I will not be surprised.

I have studied the ritual,

memorized the hush,

grown accustomed

to simmering hate.

From fear, I’ll fold a paper bird,

a fragile thing, never meant to fly.

I’ll place it in the corner of our cell,

trace its creased spine

with trembling fingers,

whisper:

Hush, hush, hush, little bird.

Quiet now.

It’s almost time.

I will smile at the guard,

blow him a kiss like smoke,

and thank him

for the wretched lesson:

how to suffer politely,

how to vanish with grace,

how to bleed so gently

the neighbors stay lulled in sleep.

I’ll picture my safe place:

bars soft as grass stems,

sirens weaving lullabies into the night,

my breath rising,

a silent ember

in a house set aflame.

I’ll breathe

as the shadows pass my window,

cold metal pressing close.

Exhale when the door knocks,

inhale

and turn my gaze away.

It’s only when you look

that you feel the cage

pressing its cold kiss

to your spine.

But I have learned

to close my eyes.

I’ve been practicing

my mindfulness,

tracing stillness

in a broken world.

I know how to calmly disappear.

So when it’s my turn

to kneel in the dust,

hands clasped above my head,

I’ll be ready:

ready to dig deep,

ready to bow

like a wildflower

pressed beneath a heel,

ready to choke my heartbeat

when the guns

remember my name.

I’ve seen

the blueprints of descent,

drawn in soot and scripture,

inked in silence,

etched by boot-sole logic.

They are meticulous,

architects of erasure,

devout and draped

in tailored wrath,

cheering for themselves

as truth is buried in applause.

In for four.

Hold for four.

Out for six.

Ascend like a thought

too tender for this world.

You watched hunger consume.

You watched the mouth forget.

You watched the jaws open,

swallow,

close.

You watched it feast.

You watched it bless itself.

And now

you are its breath.

Banality chews

with sanctified teeth,

grinding the world down.

I have watched it dine

on the innocent,

the indifferent,

the brave,

the devout—

all swallowed whole

by equal appetite.

And when it comes for me,

I will slip down its throat

without a scratch,

without a sound,

a diligent student

of serenity.

In for four.

Hold for four.

Out for six.

My turn is coming.

And I’ll be so good

at being quiet,

so good

at being gone,

I won’t even

feel the shot,

silent as a folded wing,

breathlessly blown.

For what it’s worth,

-Charlene Iris

One thought at a time.

One truth at a time. 

Because some epiphanies stay with you.