I know well by now the method -
artificial, perpetual daylight,
strapped to a chair, the frigid water,
the slapping of cheeks, prodding of ribs,
shouting my name every time I close my eyes,
the soft darkness given only as a whisper,
a distant, calculated promise
I may, when the time comes, dread,
light being preferable to utter blindness
and preferable to deafness -
the inexorable grilling,
the demanding of answers I never knew
or my pummeled mind has forsaken
in the dim reaches of the past,
the darkness out of which I have emerged.
Wanting the information, the information, the information -
demanding to know who sent me and just who I am.
O child of God, the ultimate infinite and eternal
requires more than soft gloves and sweetened tea.