When I write about rape
It takes its toll on my body
As pain, grief, rage spiral
Threatening to pull me apart
With the tension of
Wanting to stay
And wanting to run.
Thinking she knew when I was 9
How could she not?
How could she not?
I saw the signs…
His body tightly sprung,
Ever more so as the day wore on.
How could she not?
How could she not?
As bedtime drew close
And I’m sick on the floor,
Begging to extend my time with the telly
In the relative safety of the lounge,
But no,
Disgusted by my plea,
She sent me to bed.
How could she not?
How could she not?
I hate bedtime even now,
40 years on.
It’s okay for him.
He’s dead and gone,
But I’m still here
With a tightly wound body
That remembers what my mind forgot.
Only now, I’m not losing the plot.
I’m seeing clearly how we forgot
Our connection to Earth
And the object projection that entails
The lack of relationship with
Our Great Mother,
Makes it necessary to treat one another
As things to conquer, to control,
But actually all we need,
As 4 young men once said, is love.
Reciprocal love that comes by
Singing and listening
To the animism present in everything,
Which makes things beings.
Alive!
The chair you sit on.
The shoes that got you here.
The trees, oh, the trees with
Whom songs appear
When we listen.