THE WALL

Ed’s knuckles are bruised a plummy purple.
He rubs them and laughs.
‘You think this is something?
In here? Joe, this is nothing.’

‘Why’d you fight?’
I want to hear how he defended himself
against the toughest guys,
lunatics locked up for burying people alive,
monsters who are nothing like him.

‘They wouldn’t let me shower,’ he says.
‘I missed my slot, so now I stink.’

‘Who’d you hit?’

He looks ashamed.
           Was it Father Matthew?
           A guard?
‘I punched a wall,’ he says.
‘And I know this looks painful,
but you should see the wall.’

He winks
and the rest of the visit goes great.

© Sarah Crossan from Moonrise, Bloomsbury