Sink. One tap. One bench with bedding. One
toilet. One coathanger on a single
horizontal pipe. One grate. One standing
for two and a half years
every night in the questioning place
and fingers like spiders
skittering up the fabriced walls.
Light? As if underground,
paralyzed, draped.
How? One stone floor.

One would hear whimpering, but the voices
wouldn’t let completion. Squirmed
with their tipped poison. One
is only the outline of their attack.

Shadow room. No one’s
room. One? No. Rays
pierce into an eye
creating an iris for themselves there,
and a looking.