31
Skald leads us back out into the switchyard. It doesn’t look quite so vast now, with the sun inching towards the towering mounds of swill just inside the landfill’s border. Down the twin pairs of tracks, the steel fence of the Detroit Detention Center glistens in the sun, the coils of razor wire sparkling like it’s trying to convince you that Prison Is The Place To Be Seen. Past that the prison itself looms, a white concrete monument containing countless wrecked lives. American Calvinism, carved in bone and tattooed in flesh.
Gravel and cinders crunch beneath my torturous flats, and the August sun burns straight into my black funeral outfit. I’m a skinny sausage steaming in a polyester bun.
The ground shudders. The roots of my teeth ache at a distant squeal of metal on metal.
A step
