His hands were worst, pretending softness
gently just before he formed my ribs.
At least the rocks were honest,
my womb of sorts, the secret script
of being marbled me, a sand-teared slave.
He chiseled his desire, in my skin
and polished me with eyes, and glazed
me while I hid my face exposed to sins
of his. He might have dressed me, made
me decent, but he chose to leave me naked
afterwards, as the deflowered maid.
I’m raped, I’m shattered, impregnated.
So every time you let your fingers slide
along my curving spine I’m washed ashamed to hide.
Today at dVerse Lillian wants us to take a starting point in a sculpture and write it either as a persona or maybe imagine the artist point of view, maybe you can make the sculpture come alive. I have always found La Danaïde a little bit disturbing, especially if you know the mythology behind it. What I see is a raped woman, and that’s the story I wanted to tell, and also from the viewpoint that we rape her over and over ogling at her.
This is a sonnet with uneven meter… a little bit of something that will come more of later.
June 14, 2016