This Person
The first night of class one of my students
reaches out, and I take his hand and shake
it and only after remember this breaks
the prison’s rules. We’re supposed to keep
away from them, make sure we never use
anyone’s first name. He and I talk about college.
He speaks with the kind of endless knowledge
people who read all the time amass.
He’s the only student here older than
I am, but his face is more hopeful than mine,
his face less lined. He’s missing a tooth,
has a couple of scars, but what I’m drawn
to are his eyes. They are intelligent and kind.
They look into you. They’re the kind that find truth.
Vengeful in Prison
My student’s tattoo, one letter on each
finger, spells “vengeful” when he puts his fists
together. His eyes and face seem kind, but its
meaning is clear enough — a word meant to teach
the rest of us not to hurt him the way
others have. Sometimes I read an education
of pain in his back-to-the-wall caution,
how his eyes flit around, even when he stays
seated, ready. He tells me when he gets
out he’ll major in philosophy maybe.
He tells me that he’s not the same man
he was the first time he was arrested.
He tells me in his mind at least he’s free.
He tells me he changed. He tells me we all can.
John Brantingham was a New York State Council on the Arts Grant Recipient for 2024, and he was Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks’ first poet laureate. His work has been in hundreds of magazines and The Best Small Fictions 2016 and 2022. He has twenty-two books of poetry, nonfiction, and fiction. Learn more about John at https://www.johnbrantingham.com/.
Editor’s Note:
This was not exactly the bio John sent for me to include with his poems should I select any for publication. But upon sending an acceptance notice for the two pieces above, I received a reply instead from his wife Ann stating that John has passed away since this submission, and graciously consenting to their inclusion here. Rest in Peace, John.
