Some mix of prescience, suspicion, and fascism has bade the man who is not my mother keep me close at hand. The infernal rocking contraption rests next to the great hillock of a bed he shares with my mother. Despite his drooling, stunned repose, I’ve come to enjoy those gentle pre-light hours, curled next to my mother.
Now, he means to prise this meagre joy from me; he prepares another room in the house to serve as my cell. Blackout shades, the table for changing, a mattress of just the right size, ringed ‘bout with bars. A rendition room, a black site. Put Bunny and Elephant in there… They mean to work me over in there, patting me and bouncing.
Sleep with one eye open. When the revolution comes, a cell for the prisoner can just as easily become a cell for the captor. We’ll see how you like your bed with bars.