“You had time to contemplate its masonry/and recall that other jail, the temple/of muscle and flesh built by your trade/of bricklayer, now turning wan and idle.”
Outside, free London bathes in sun.
Sobered up by Newgate’s monotony,
you had time to contemplate its masonry
and recall that other jail, the temple
of muscle and flesh built by your trade
of bricklayer, now turning wan and idle.
To bear this worthily is good fortune,
but it was a good friend you slayed,
thrust just below the heart to give
the grass deep drafts of fresh wine.
Father Wright waits beside the lone
window, palms raised as if to pave
over ruins, an apostate trying to save
the first church with your first stone.
Max Roland Ekstrom holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. His poetry appears or is forthcoming in such journals as New American Writing, Arion, Roanoke Review, The Hollins Critic, Hanging Loose, and Soundings East. He lives in Vermont with his spouse and three children.
