The Interrogation Room
I imagine they took you to a room.
You were led to a chair
And there might have been a table.
There was a pen scathing
Or a tape recorder spool twisting
Your words back on itself.
"Are you a Marxist?
Which hand would you use
To hold the Constitution?
Do you talk in your sleep?
Which of the stars
Of the national flag
Represents d**h?
What kinds of friends
Have shared your cigarettes
Or rolled over in bed
Stretching his or her hand
To find you absent,
And believed that
You had been taken away?"
You swallowed your trembling
With the help
Of a cup of coffee
They had placed
In your trusting hands
You finally cleared your throat
As if pushed
Onto a funeral podium
To deliver a eulogy
For a man you did not know.
What is a word?
A needle's ballet
Stitching the chasm
Between a yes and a no.