Groaning is the first language of desert— of suffering beyond words. Groaning is what must take me beyond the self-pity and the despair of the women’s prison. I begin to see visions, maybe even hallucinations, heart-stopping. There are many prisons; but there is joy, deepening and widening the dimensions in which I live and breathe. The hurt and the pain will now seep into the ground. Desire, I have not forgotten my mother, no longer is my hair tangled with my own sweat, and tears.