All I Talk About is Incarceration Poetry by Abigail Cook Maybe poems don’t have to rhyme anymore. Maybe there doesn’t have to be a meter. Because if things made sense in this world, I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have ten years of probation for a mistake I made as a teenager. My best friend’s family wouldn’t have to choose to bury or to cremate her. I wouldn’t have nightmares caked in regret and disgust. I wouldn’t look in your eyes and see only distrust. I would be a normal woman who crosses her legs and holds a job. I wouldn’t take anti-psychotics because paranoia makes my head throb. And maybe this doesn’t have an end that is pretty or cinematic. Maybe my story ends quietly and collects dust in an attic.