At Guantánamo, indefinite detainees
are known as the forever prisoners.
Carried to the feeding block by a forced cell
extraction team, laxative and vanilla Ensure
entering him through the tube in his nose,
tied to the restraint chair, he sees the photos
in National Geographic (mildewed, tattered)
he’s pored over. He has by heart the gondolas
of Venice, can summon a teakwood dhow.
He doesn’t vomit; the team carries him back.
In a cellblock in Camp 6, his ankles chained,
he stains cardboard with coffee, timbers
his clipper ship, ravels his prayer cap
for rigging, ties fine knots. While the anchor
(a bottle lid) grabs the sea-bottom, holds fast,
his rag-sails are ballooning with wind.
