Self-Portrait as a Family

He's glad his sister visits twice a week,though twice a week she prays until she faints.The guards haul her into a plastic chair,

and she wakes chattering about his soul—first things and last. Her brother, like the guards,is patient. He winks, but kneels with her, and prays.

At night, lights out, he turns almost reflectiveas other inmates serenade the moon—coyote moans and psychopathic laughter—

and he decides again he's blameless, a victimof the dictionary. Words so clear to himmean other things to people who read books.

"I told him if he moved, I'd shoot. He moved.That's suicide. What else you gonna call it?"He ponders his theology of first

and last—the first of the month, the last of the month.His story's old, new revenues are falling,and unsold memoirs jam the family attic.

He has a plan: escape. Kidnap the governor.Rape him! Or say he did. Back on Death Row,with Act Two of his drama under option,

he can release himself to howls of rapture,inducing others to seduce the moon.But first he has a family to support.