Maybe you were a subversive.
Part of a cell.
Or you ordered some questionable books.
Matching some profile.
Compromised by a friend.
Betrayed by a rival.
Brought in for routine questioning.
Vehemently denying all charges.
Tragically expiring while in custody.
The official inquiry tactfully deflecting blame.
A closed casket, to spare your poor mother.
If I shouted your praises
climbed King’s Hill and
through cupped hands
serenaded the painted valley
with my corrido of longing
would you hear it
where you are
a whisper, a susurrus
pitched beyond sound yet
strangely pleasing to your ears?