Ravished

Times like these
     I feel such a fool.
   My stomach indented and red from stones-
         granules of dirt embedded in flesh.
   My hair is such a mess-
       dry grass interwoven in the disheveled strands.
  The overwhelming scent of conquest 
                                  and sickly sweet semen
         		      pervades the air.
         The memory of
 rough, calloused hands under my shoulder blades
   pressing the full body weight of a man
        into me.
  Him fitting himself roughly along my spine 
       laughter and clumsily heavy breathing
                                  tattooing me from behind.
     Numbness is the only fortification.
Close my eyes
   stinging with dust and blood
 and imagine my life
     fluttering away awkwardly
   like a wounded moth. 
  And now
   staggering about through the underbrush.
 Balance a foreign concept.
I am heavy with shame
    and sweat,
  exhausted and breathless.
I cannot call out for sweet water.
 My tongue, ripped out by the root,
  would do me little good now,
       a sad, detached clump of muscle
     in a puddle of crimson mud.
I cannot wash from my body
       the stench of their acidic saliva-
           the feeling that I will no longer
              be any more than their prey,
    that my entire existence will be encompassed
         by the thrust of a pelvis 
            and the slice of a blade.
        My hands will no longer be of use to me.
     Their stiffened digits forever clenched into
           feeble balls of skin and bone
        rotting away beneath the bushes
    that witnessed me being ravished.
  My head is a babbling brook of the unspoken.
Oh, what will father think?





  


    

Back to [the poems...]

    Site Produced by 


    © 2002. All Rights Reserved.

    Send questions or comments about the site
    to the Poet.