I’m bound hands and feet.
Resistance binds me all the more.
Someone shared a photo,
holding it before my eyes –
me as a child on a stick horse galloping
like a pony under the great gray trees.
I wept so hard I thought
I might die but I didn’t.
Imagine somewhere, I am told, other than here;
somehow other than this trussed up existence.
I wonder what good it does, seeing
that I can’t move an eyelash
back towards innocence
nor forward towards liberation.
O child of God, it’s a long journey.
Some days are better than others.