Clemency
By Peter Neil Carroll
I never met her, before or after. She
was up for parole, she needed a letter
for clemency. I had good letterhead.
Back in the 70s, a 20-year-old woman gets
40 years-to-life for believing a liar: lending
$400 to her boyfriend for a car, but instead
he bought a rifle for a gang of radicals.
She hasn’t seen or heard from him since.
She has already served 22 years good time.
She stands near the gate, watches the yellow prison
bus approach. The telegram yesterday brought
her a reprieve. Did my letter matter? Unlikely.
She waits with the wind, buttons the blue denim
jacket, wondering where she will live. On parole,
she can’t meet old associates (as if she would).
Her parents have passed, she’s lost track of a sister.
She’s a new woman, no longer interested in men
(she thinks). This is America; she is free to start over.
Peter Neil Carroll has two new collections of poetry: This Land, These People: The 50 States (2022), which won the Prize Americana from the Institute for the Study of Popular Culture; and Talking to Strangers: poetry of everyday life (Turning Point, 2022). He lives in northern California with the photographer/author Jeannette Ferrary.
Spread the word