I carry nothing but hope and a Bible. I open it.
An outdated photograph. An unfamiliar face. My father.
My favorite church dress is mutilated,
soiled by my own bodily fluids.
My stomach angrily speaks to me. Why can’t you help me?
Food is placed before me. I am not hungry anymore.
I feel trapped. I gasp for air, but the
putrid smell of shit and vomit is overwhelming.
The wind begins to howl, and as it does, so do I.
Mama shushes me, telling me that I have to be brave.
Children ask me to sing with them. Sing for what?
There is nothing harmonious about this journey.
I see a lady dressed in green, a torch resting in her hand.
I reach out to touch her, but the fog prevents my success.
Free at last. Free at last.
Is that you, father? Is this really freedom?