Few Minutes of Murder a Day (A Poem)
How do you pour your blankness
on a blank sheet? How do you smear its slatted face
with crinkly soreness goring in deep, lower navel pulverized
with that libidinal punch, aah, aah, aah
ruthless lunge of a cheetah
when he comes inside gushing terror announced
while you shudder from end to end, how?
But it’s only a couple of minutes (isn’t it?) a day or night
or whatever fucking bit of fucked up moment
happens to be your proprietary service time that you bide
as a bride till you are all but dried.
Just a couple of minutes it is, indeed, of murder.
Yup, mere minutes, my mother, and he will let me be.
Live another day, I know.
But shouldn’t he ask me if it’s alright? That my fright
shouldn’t be his night of love. Shouldn’t he want a caress too
if not caress me? Shouldn’t he have been told? It can’t
be ignored. Shouldn’t he have been told of all that he shouldn’t?
Couldn’t that have been known?
Mother! Where are the fathers? Tell them of the murders, your daughter
can’t continue this cycle of stillbirths.