Negro Criminal

From the pensive treachery of my cell I can hear your mournful yell. Centuries of pain are pressed Into one unconscious jest As your scream disrobes your soul. The silence of your iron hole Is hot and stolid, like a guest Weary of seeing men undressed. The silence holds an unused bell That will answer your lunging yell When your flesh has curled away Into the burning threshold of a day. Like the silence, I listen Because I seek the glisten Of a hidden humour that strains Underneath the stumble of all pains. Brown and wildly clownish shape Thrown into a cell for rape, You contain the tortured laugh Of a pilgrim-imbecile whose staff Taps against a massive comedy. Melodrama burlesques itself with free And stony voice, and wears a row of masks To hide the strident humour of its tasks. Melodrama, you, and I, We are merely tongues that try To loosen an elusive dream Into whisper, laugh, and scream.