The Sun and the Prison
| John Dennis
It comes in before the bolts are drawn,
not through the gates but through the glass,
a slow, deliberate spill of gold
across the floor of every cell.
It rests a while on the metal bed,
warms the thin blanket folded twice,
lays a quiet hand on a shoulder turned
too long toward the wall.
The sun
moves tier by tier, uncounted, unseen,
softening the corners of concrete thought,
touching the scar no one asks about,
the knuckles, the jaw, the held-in breath.
It polishes the dull of a steel sink,
coaxes a flicker from tired eyes,
lingers in the hollow of a name
spoken only in memory.
On it goes, patient warden of light,
through corridors humming with yesterday,
slipping past locks, past numbers, past files,
mending what it can without witness
a warmth in the chest that loosens the fist,
a brightness that edges regret into shape,
a steady insistence that time can move forward, even here.
It finds the ones who do not sleep,
sits with them through the longest hour,
leans through the bars like a listening friend,
says nothing, but does not leave.
In the yard it opens its wide, clear palm,
lets faces lift, lets shadows fall behind,
lays out a sky no wall can hold,
a brief and boundless reprieve.
And when the day has done its work,
when names are called and doors release,
when footsteps cross from counted ground
into the unmeasured air
the sun does not follow.
It pauses on the threshold,
sets its warmth in the hands that wait,
in the streets, the homes, the turning world,
and gives them back
not as they were,
but as they might yet be
to us.
About the author:
John Dennis was born in New York and moved to Sweden after being stationed in Italy while serving in the US Navy. He holds a Master’s degree in Pedagogy from Malmö University where he also studied Creative Writing. A stroke ended his teaching career giving him more time to write. He is married to Anna, father to Julia and grandfather to Noah.