soap is deceptively easy to carve, but a single moment of inattention
and you lose a detail. The sliver of razor blade fits neatly
between my thumb and forefinger. Im holding my breath as i carve
the last curve of an antler, then set it on its hooves. It stands
at the head of dozens of caribou, all paintstakingly carved.
In my minds eye I can see them moving across an open plain of snow,
their breath pluming in the air.

 

The wardens encourage us to forget, forget.
Its in their best interests for us to meet them as strangers each
day.

 

 When i carve, my hands remember things. So i carve.

Manny's turned over on his side, talking in his sleep. Indicpherable
words, like he's talking in another language. Out in the darkness
of the prison a man coughs, another yells out a name. Theres a little
 moonlight turning the bars high up on the wall a pale silver.

I can see the shadows of clouds passing through the cell.

 

My name is jorge and i am a prisoner. The person i was before
i was locked up in this cage, that person is transparent as a spirit.

I can remember the sweet taste of game. The bitter stink of smoke.
I hardly remember my crime. Im frankly not even sure im a criminal.
Thinking about it gives me an ache behind my eyes.

There are a few things that have stuck with me. I remember my mother
telling me that once in a year, the caribou pour across the land
following a deep need and nothing, not even death will stop them.

I like carving them. I like to dream im a caribou.

I'm comfortably still now, waiting for a sun i havent looked at
in ten years.

ii