They gave me a bucket,
a mop,
a moment.
Said, "Clean this wing, Scarver."
Didn’t know I was already cleaning something bigger.
Didn’t know what I’d been praying for.
He whistled while he scrubbed.
Dahmer.
Humming like it was Sunday,
like he hadn’t boiled boys in bathtubs.
Like he hadn’t kept ribs in the fridge.
Like God didn’t see it.
The other—Anderson—
beat his wife, blamed two Black men.
Wrote the lie right into her grave.
Said he needed redemption.
But they all say that
when the bars are shut.
So I listened.
To the floor’s echo.
To the voice in my spine.
To the voice that’s not mine
but deeper,
older.
The weight of steel in my hand
wasn’t revenge.
It was balance.
Judgment in the laundry room.
They say I lost my mind.
They say I was crazy.
But madness doesn’t pray like I do.
-
Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: April 8th, 2026 00:04
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem is about Christopher Scarver who, while serving time for the 1990 murder of Steve Lohman, murdered fellow inmates Jeffrey Dahmer and Jesse Anderson.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 12
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: Bloodletters and Badmen.
Offline)
Comments3
Love "So I listened to the floor's echo, the voice in my spine. This is great work and you are indeed talented. Keep writing my friend.
Matthew, this comes in quiet and then tightens…by the time it lands, there’s no space left to step back. It holds its ground all the way through. Powerful piece, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
This was cold and dark but I have been there in those prison cells talking to murder's that see things different than we do and sometimes even see the devil himself. How then can you convince them that they did wrong. A lovely write
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