Melanie Figg
Doing Time in Chicago
It takes me two trains and a bus to reach Cook County Jail.
I’m twenty, flushed with freedom, here to teach poetry
to male inmates. Inside the stone hall winds a long line
of Latinas and African-Americans, each waiting to see her man.
An afternoon of paperwork and two locked doors:
shaking their heads for thinking it’d be easier in the Windy City.
I don’t have to wait to enter this cinder-block city,
so I step ahead of the woman at the front. The jail
guard finally notices me shuffling and unlocks the door
so I can escape her mumbling about me, escape to the poetry
of Langston and Etheridge—the two men
the guys love best. They sure can tell a line
Sedgewick murmurs, while the rest struggle to line
up their thoughts about love, freedom and Allah. Scarcity
has made them wistful, stubborn. One man
scratches F-R-E-E into his fist. Hell rhymes with jail
Anthony tells me. I convince him rap music is poetry.
He likes the idea, but, No amount of rapping knocks
down these doors.
They teach me to pick locks. I think of the door
to the supply room where my date book is, the lines
with my address and phone number. Poetry
won’t keep one of them from finding me in the city
once he beats his case and is out of jail.
I know about the guy who walked, then raped that woman,
a woman like me, teaching the men
algebra and adjectives, convinced that doors
that worked for us could keep them out of jail.
But it’s more than just being able to walk a line—
it’s color, and what corner of this city
you call mine. Sure, the projects are littered with poetry,
but what did I expect? That poetry
could be a bridge between the men’s
lives and mine? Inside each of us is an entire city,
and maybe we just used each other as a door
to glimpse where we won’t go. Their tired faces line
the walls. It’s been raining all day outside the jail
and when I leave to return to the city, three steel doors
lock them in with the poetry I’ve left behind. When the men
keep scribbling lines of verse I won’t be surprised; jail is jail.
If Icarus Had Lived
(a Golden Shovel after Jack Gilbert)
I walk away and do contract work for a couple of months, but I
always come back to my wings. Isn’t there something you believe
in so much, that you’d sell your soul to get it right? I know: Icarus
stop being so dramatic. But my first flight really was
all that—a total rush. Better than drugs or sex (not
that I’d pass those up so easy)—which is good, since failing
to reach the sun pretty much sucked. Once I was airborne it was as
if I was meant to be a bird. Dad never understood that. He
always thought I was a screw up who didn’t listen, who fell
and deserved it. He’s right, I didn’t listen to him, but
that’s because I had never felt that free in my life. Just
imagine: every burden gone, blue sky holding you, the wind coming
to lift you up toward the source of all heat and light—God, to
be that close to a sense of, hell, man, purpose, well, the
rest just doesn’t measure up. I want that again. In the end,
when I figure it out and can leave this earth behind and, sort of,
you know, fulfill my destiny—I can’t wait to see his
face. He’ll finally understand me, and be proud of my triumph.
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| AUTHOR BIO |
| Melanie Figg's writing awards include Fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, The McKnight Foundation, and the Maryland State Arts Council. In her award-winning debut collection, Trace, from New Rivers Press, “Figg kindles broken, dying embers into a roaring memorial for the voiceless.”(Kirkus starred review). Her poems have been published in dozens of journals, including LIT, Colorado Review, and The Iron Horse Literary Review. Melanie teaches writing in the DC area, offers women’s writing retreats, and works remotely with all kinds of writers. |
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| POETRY CONTRIBUTORS |
 Melanie Figg
Taryn Frazier
Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas
Julia Griffin
Katie Hartsock
Ruth Holzer
Jenny Isaacs
Jen Karetnick
Miriam N. Kotzin
Susan McLean
Ann E. Michael
Samantha Pious
Leslie Schultz
Janice D. Soderling
Laura Sweeney
Marly Youmans
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| Avila Gray is a self-taught illustrator, specialising in fine ink pen and watercolour paintings. Avi is based in Sydney, Australia, where she operates a stationery business called Erlenmeyer, selling art prints, greeting cards, playing cards, stickers and colouring books. Erlenmeyer is also the name of Avi's storytelling animal kingdom; a futuristic utopia where sentient creatures live in harmony across 12 cities on Earth. All of the compositions from her illustrative range depict snapshots from this story; her body of work shows the animal characters that colour the Erlenmeyer world, as well as their culture, values and how they live. Avi has been selling her illustrations and products since 2014 and became a resident at Australia’s iconic Rocks Market for many years, developing a loyal customer base and social media following. After several years of trade shows in Sydney and London, her designs can now be found in more than 80 shops worldwide. Many of Avi's designs are licensed by the international greeting card company, Moonpig.
For additional information, please visit www.erlenmeyer.com.au.
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