Prison Pastoral
- Prison Pastoral
I once mistook a gray mothlying at my feet on faded grassfor a blanched butterfly.Its casual stillness,wings curved hieroglyphssteely against the bronzed lawn,startled me;everything in prison movesin hunched caution,flightless but bent on flying.Did it know this wasn’t pasture meantto land on? Did it know my pale shadowwasn’t an elm, and never could be? Did it know,no matter how much pretending,it was a moth? I tried to findanswers woven in fine silkon quiet wings.Its language was dust. [End Page 58]
B. Batchelor has been incarcerated since 2002 and is a member of the Stillwater Writer’s Collective. He has been a fortunate student in the Minnesota Prison Writing Workshop for two years and has had wonderful teachers and an amazing mentor shaping him into an addict of writing.
