Verhör
A hand across my mouth prevents me
from answering the question.
Lips crushed: I taste blood.
I offer no defense. Perhaps
I am guilty. My reactions suggest
I am hiding something, or have
reason to fear interrogation. That
in itself may be proof of guilt.
A mirror held to my face reveals
a nose broken earlier. Is this
what you want to look like?
I dare say it’s not, but what of it?
A judgment made in the dark
condemns me to inanity,
common weapon of tyrants,
aimed to slay the thinking mind.
The torturers begin to look
like knickknacks painted red
by children wearing ersatz
uniforms from Hugo Boss.
If I begin to laugh now
I may never stop, that is
to say, I will only stop
when I am actually stopped.
Answer the question.
But my powers of retention
diminish minute by minute.
What was the question again?
And even if I wanted to answer
I could not hope to with that
hand across my mouth,
a hand that smells like Ivory Soap.