Choir Practice at the California Men’s Colony

The men straggle in at five wearing royal blue 
prison fatigues, INMATE stamped down 
the right leg in case anyone had any doubt.
Relief erupts in how ya’ doing man hugs, 
knuckle knocks and back slaps, fades to silence
as they move into a circle to pray. Jesus is in 
relaxation mode on the back wall, a little faded 
but still enjoying a last supper with his disciples, 
savoring their ebbing time. The men have nothing 
but time, whole lives to live out in this cement 
and razor-wire house. But the setting sun 
casts gold light on everything here, the men’s 
tattooed necks and shaved heads are like 
ornaments, like altar candles lit and reverent, 
their eyes bright in anticipation of their cue. 
They know the words by heart, all they have 
to do is fill their lungs and sing:

                          I believe I can fly
                        I believe I can touch the sky
                       I think about it every night and day 

Their voices knit an emerald pulse that rises
like a warbler fledge alive to fly through 
the transom full-throated crooning into the green, 
green hills that roll out in all directions. 

Poem Scribbled on Santa Cruz Island 

I’m not saying I want to be a wren,
I’m saying I want to be of the earth 
like one and of the air, not wondering
if I am this or that or good enough 
or bad, considering only weevils 
and crickets, wind and dragonfly nymphs, 
if this might be a good place 
to sing.