He handed her over
to the knife
and she knew
what it wanted–
to rub against her
to cut raw
what wasn’t
even ripe
He laid her
down
on the board
on the bed
They must be fed
They are starving
and growing
boys
Tolerating the noise
his senseless sex
she shrinks
in my mind
flinching from
the pinch
the pressure
of his pleasure
Pulling the scabs
from her skin
she’d rather bleed out
than heal without a scar
she won’t be
the maiden martyr
the fruit on the
limbs of his whim
She won’t fast,
She hungers
for the flesh
from under his wing
She wants to make poultry
the muscles he used
the patriarchy
he shrouded her in
Unearthing the seeds they spilled
female fingers
plunge into
fertile ground
they check the bulb
they tender it now
and it smells of sweet meat
a sugary sustenance
pouring out from their cunts
onto tangled sheets
ink from inside
where he could not reach
Her signature is far from plain
for pleasure and pain
did not take his name
