Thursday, December 5, 2013

Why I dream Olivia Benson

I sold knives in stranger's homes, diced
carrots on tables. I believed
in their steel-- knew how sharp they were.

The detective told me my rapist's last name
was Justice. The kit wouldn't be back for
at least a year. I didn't have HIV.  

Two days after it happened the hospital called.
My Potassium level was heart-threatened-
low from all the fingers down my throat. A butterfly
needle into my vein, I watched the IV bag empty
itself into me.

The day after it happened they said, pluck
50 pubic hairs. Either you can do it or we can. Gloved doctor
said no bruises, no torn flesh. He hmphed and left,
my shame-- raw,
warm yolk, cracked
over my body.  

19 and you know the story: short skirt it's true
it's trite my cheeks rouged from drink
that night. The house-- a strangers I can't see clearly.
When I woke he was inside me, mermaids
swimming in my mouth.

A cloud of cold deja vu leaves itself
in my eyes, layers over layers--
grape rhymes with drape rhymes
with freight but I must tell it, must tell
the not again of it--why
I don't buy those beautiful
brown pears anymore.

No comments:

Post a Comment