Renaissance
by Karen Masullo
Aguilar has more than thirty tattoos covering his arms, legs, back and
chest -
identity penned and injected by his hermanos,
legends and maps, history practiced by fathers and brothers
who stare at each other across 12 feet of hall.
They bang on doors in code, the glass and steel too thick
to allow much sound to escape. They moan and pray,
twenty-four hours in isolation, every day.
They have killed and will be killed.
Inside or out, it is for family.
They pace the yard as once brown skin pales.
They dream of sex and children to come,
designing the markings they'll make on their sons.
The pain is a test; it has always been this way.
The women cry on the free side, staring through windows,
phones in hand, they believe in innocence,
promise chastity, settle for appeals
and inspire the art of the bound.
Men who never thought to spend solitude writing, painting,
composing music, dancing with indignation,
bare feet slapping cemented floors. They work the rhythm of the prison,
melt into walls and vibrate with exploration.
This art is born of street and rage and missing mama,
of rape and revenge, colors and compatriots.
Art begins where reason ends here.
This is the family of the new renaissance.
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