by Katie Kemple
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| Illustration by Chelsea Charles for The Washington Post |
Product of flesh, moldable
robot, we blank out
your name, hide your limbs
in a cross, until your head
can’t hold itself up anymore.
You fucked-up. That’s why
we come for you at 3am,
tell you to get dressed,
handcuff your spoiled wrists,
escort you to our car.
Your parents watch.
They hired us. In America,
our tax dollars fund it.
Through the rear-view
mirror, I see you trying
to memorize the route.
Don’t bother. The place
we’re going, you won’t
get out. We strip you naked,
yell: “cough!” You do it.
We probe the secrets
of your body. No drugs
in your cavities. Prepare to rot,
bitch. Now get going,
I say: “git!” Your walls
are concrete. The women
have pressed the white sheets
of the last girl. The one
who turned herself into
a scarecrow. Yours now,
sleep. Rest your eyelid
on the stain of her
slutty-blue mascara.
Author's Note: This poem is in response to Rachel Aviv’s New Yorker article “The Shadow Penal System For Struggling Kids” (October 18) and Paris Hilton’s Washington Post op-ed “America’s ‘troubled teen industry’ needs reform so kids can avoid the abuse I endured” (October 18). Both articles detail toxic, cult-like organizations that trap unsuspecting youth into a shadow penal system. Once surrendered by their parents, it’s nearly impossible for victims to escape. These companies come for children at night, subject them to strip searches, and inflict psychologically damaging treatments under the guise of "tough love". There are no laws to protect minors in the custody of these groups. In fact, they receive state and federal funds for their services.
Katie Kemple (she/her) is a poet, parent, and consultant in San Diego, CA. Her poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Atlanta Review, Longleaf Review, Matter, Lunch Ticket (Amuse-Bouche), and Anti-Heroin Chic.