As a young child, I remember going with my mom several times to visit my uncle in a prison somewhere in Georgia. I don’t remember much of anything about the facility. What I remember is my uncle being glad to see his sister and her two children. His face lit up when he saw us, and I felt his warmth and his love in what I would later realize was a cold and unforgiving place.

More than two decades ago, I was kept in solitary confinement for 480 days. It was brutal. I became disconnected from my mind. Poetry saved me. I was allotted a tiny pen no longer than my pinkie finger.

I was struck by how meaningful our conversations together had been. For those coming from the outside, there is always something new to learn about prison: yet another element of Kafka-esque absurdity is revealed as we get a glimpse into institutions that are so fervently kept from public view.