I sit across the table from my partner
in the atrium of the psychiatric holding facility

our hands churched into our laps. We are not allowed
to touch. The air between us thick as Perspex.

They tell me all the ways this place resembles a prison.

•

Everything a sterile white
so clean it could almost disinfect
a memory.

•

In 1787,
Jeremy Bentham conceived of what would become
the most common prison design:

the panopticon.

Intended to control prisoners through the illusion
that they are always under surveillance.

•

My partner tells their therapist
they are afraid of taking
their own life,

that they balanced on a building’s edge,
& three officers escort them from the room.

•

The first cop who ever handcuffed me
[was my father]
left me bound
   till my fingers blued.

On the days when I can’t remember
his face,
   he becomes the scent of
vodka & zip ties
   the sound of
cuffs & a bottle
   petaling into blades.

•

   At the booking office they remove my glasses
   & the guards blur into a procession
   of fathers.

•

I bring my partner clothes & pads
when the hospital decides to hold them longer,

shove each shirt that could mark them
as queer back inside the closet & shut it [like a mouth].

•

The word faggot scrawls across
the jail guard’s lips like graffiti.

•

When I visit my partner
they insist on staying inside

   the sky above
   the patio cordoned
   off with chicken wire.

•

I plead my sentence down
in exchange for: my face, my prints, my DNA
   & ten years probation.

When I see a cop, I fear
   even my breath
criminal

   & when my therapist asks me
   if I’m suicidal
   I lie.

Perhaps
both are a kind
of surveillance.

•

Tear gas floods the street,
sharpens water to a blade
hidden in the orbit of my eye.

& just like this, a squad car
remakes my sadness a weapon.

If my partner snaps cuffs
around my wrists

[& I asked for this]

have they also weaponized
my desire?

•

A woman in the facility
tells my partner:
   I know what you are.
Says:
   Sinner.
Says:
   Anti-christ.

My partner goads her on,
babbles in false
tongues & is confined
   to their room for safety.

•

Once, a cop dragged me
into an alley &
beat me like he knew
exactly what I was.

What does it say if sometimes
when I ask my partner to hit me

I expect his fist
tightened in their throat, his voice
bruising their tongue?

•

I am arrested & placed
[in the men’s jail]
in solitary confinement.

They tell me this is protective
custody. That they couldn’t afford
the lawsuit if I were killed. In this way,
they tell me I am a woman

only when I am no longer
breathing.

•

The origin of the word prison
is the Latin prehendere — to take.

   It follows, then,
   that to take your life is to prison
   the body beneath dirt.

•

[Historically,
suicide is a criminal act].

•

Balanced on a building’s edge, I imagine
some permutation of this moment

   where to fail at death
   would be a breach

   of my probation.

•

We both weep for the first time

upon release

when we see the sky.

Pale blue

sliced through

with a single helix

of razor wire & bordered

in sterile white.

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