Rose & Thorn Journal - Spring 2011
Michael A. Wells is a poet, a baseball aficionado, lover of wine and a Diet Coke addict. He makes his home in a Kansas City, Missouri suburb with his wife and pets. His work has appeared in both print and online journals such as Rockhurst Fine Arts Review, Park University Scribe, Boston Literary Magazine, Autumn Sky Poetry and Right Hand Pointing. He is currently working on a poetry manuscript and routinely blogs at Stick Poet Superhero.
Michael A. Wells
House Arrest
The first day,
he sank
a flattened
wet cardboard box.
He never lost hope
(maybe once)
hours grew long
like rodent’s teeth
when prevented from gnawing
until days and nights
came together and one
could not be distinguished
from another and time
meaningless
always stood watch.
Walls he once had a hand in
decorating now chilled concrete
he didn’t recognize,
each machete blade
of the ceiling fan
silently poised
above his head.
Guards brought meals,
an occasional letter
(always pre-opened) something taken
from its context.
After a while they were no longer
enemy, just an extension
of the door—he could not pass.
Through the months he learned
to take his heart out. Hold it,
—remind it that it too was loved.
House Arrest
The first day,
he sank
a flattened
wet cardboard box.
He never lost hope
(maybe once)
hours grew long
like rodent’s teeth
when prevented from gnawing
until days and nights
came together and one
could not be distinguished
from another and time
meaningless
always stood watch.
Walls he once had a hand in
decorating now chilled concrete
he didn’t recognize,
each machete blade
of the ceiling fan
silently poised
above his head.
Guards brought meals,
an occasional letter
(always pre-opened) something taken
from its context.
After a while they were no longer
enemy, just an extension
of the door—he could not pass.
Through the months he learned
to take his heart out. Hold it,
—remind it that it too was loved.
