Today my cousin will be darning
Her husband’s socks,
And he will be cutting grass to make
Bales of hay to feed his milk cows.

The moist and penetrating odor
Of manure from the stable floats on the air,
Loaded with the hums of a thousand insects;
He fans himself with his flax straw hat,
The one made by my other cousin, to be part of
His Sunday clothes, but since it
Is pretty worn out, he uses it during the
Week to protect himself from the sun.

For the past hour, I have been standing,
And sitting here, restless, and alone,
In the anteroom of the offices
Of the Supreme Court.

They summoned me here today to meet
With those who make up the Court, to
Talk to them about prison facts—
Professionals who profane their office,
And make it as earthy as
The manure my cousin spreads on his
Fields as fertilizer in far off Pennsylvania.

But the abuse perpetrated by trusted persons,
The fondling and exploitation of naïve young men
Stinks so horribly that not even hurricane winds
Could drive away the odor.

So, I stand here, between the two worlds,
Trying to keep the stench from overpowering me,
Screaming at the winds of denial in both worlds. . . .
But even as I scream, in the midst of rage and
Pain, comes the awareness that manure
Is redeemable, useful to me and others,
Even to my far-away cousin.

Will he find it useful? Maybe, maybe not. . . .
Someone has to tell him, and others; someone has to
Do more than scream, to believe that
New scents can blow on new winds.
—Jonathan Beachy