by Frank Potvin
After the first eleven days in that cell
before the shadows there became his
only witness, before he knew his time was up,
when he could still hold a cogent thought,
before the onslaught of blow after blow,
before the world became seamless and hell,
he thought she came to him, performed her
healing arts and laid with him, the days and weeks
flying by, as if in her reasonableness and care
he was free to falter, and in letting go, become
almost heroic, but, fearless in his bellowing.
Frank Potvin writes from the remaining woods of New Hampshire where he works as a Mental Health Counselor. Published poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Ellipsis, YAWP, and anthologized in The Maple Leaf Rag. He is a member of the River Voices Poetry Collective in Walpole, NH.