Comfort in Captivity

Comfort in Captivity THE TIE-DYED SWEATER IN YOUR CLOSET

I once was told by hearsays bound to wayward destinations— acceptance entails freedom. To which I replied: Confinement behind mahogany walls after a pledge to my own sin is not the open sky.

But then again, a free man does not carry skeletons in downtown streets. Strangers might call him a madman on the loose or worse, a devil’s immaculate work. Funny how their arms take up another free man’s sleeve.

And perhaps, their bony clutches were the shackles I never knew I had.

With half a foot peeking out and in the rarest of times, a little braver than usual— I was ready to bolt.

On second thought— enough seconds of hesitation to reconsider my resolve:

I recall my mother’s plea— echoing in a voice that once pacified the storms that swept my young irises: Son, never sing the psalms of the sirens.

I did.

I dropped a maggot in my can for another shot at deceit. A better choice than drawing paint from her finger to finish the portrait in my closet.

I withdrew from the door, further back behind mothball-scented coats. On my knees once again, for every one of my corpses she was never acquainted with.