Cinderblocks Daniel R. O’Donnell
I know the cold of cinderblocks. The bone-splitting bone-white cold. You were on holiday in Europe. I was handcuffed, beaten, wrapped in one wool blanket. My feet poked out like little children. A draft swept through the barred window like an old ghost. I saw my breath, shivered‌ then drifted off. I had a dream about your dead grandmother. She wore a pale blue dress And floated down a long hallway. Her only word was silence. I knew she needed water. I got up in the morning And studied the cinderblocks. I counted them. I gave them names I cannot remember. I became acquainted with the cruel symmetry. The insanity of straight lines: I touched Punched Kissed And licked. My hands were bloody. For several days I refused to eat. I survived on water.
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