Free from prison, his eyes,
more than shaved head, show how close
he’s been sheared – clear to the bone.
Creased suit and stained, white shirt
cannot hide the perfect knot
tight at his throat.
Some memories are not lost
but return if we will them:
broken fingers can still tie a tie,
and eyes that see beyond echoing
gray walls and slats of light
still find what once was home.
His face, emerging from shadow,
is no funeral or passport portrait,
not propaganda or family history
but the framed moment of release
looking past us to what he lost,
to what he hopes he will find again.
Already he sees it just out of reach:
a boy in an early summer field
reaching through the awakening sky
toward an apple, hanging red,
bending the branch down
to his open, waiting hand.