Jackson Cage

Every other weekend it’s three hours there and three hours back.  That’s six hours of listening to Samson’s mother talk and stopping every 15 miles so she can pee. Then we’re there and the guard hands me a sweatshirt to put over my tank top. They say it’s best not to make the other prisoners jealous.  I take out my earrings and a fat man runs his calloused hands up and down my legs, around my ankles, and under my breasts.

When I finally get to sit at the table with Samson, I can’t get a word in over his mother’s sobbing.  Then, only ten minutes into our hour, another inmate comes to our table and puts a hand on me.  Before I can even notice and be offended, Samson has him on the ground with a hand around his neck.  Before I can tell him about my new job or our dog’s surgery, Samson’s handcuffed and dragged away by guards who are even bigger than he is.  For the next two weeks, all I can think of is the glimpse I got of his chest through his torn jumpsuit.