My vagina, my village
Saturday, February 19, 2004
My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow
mooing sun resting, sweet boyfriend touching lightly
with soft piece of blond straw.
There is something between my legs. I do not know
what it is. I do not know where it is. I do not touch.
Not now. Not anymore. Not since.
My vagina was chatty, can't wait, so much, so much
saying, words talking, can't quit trying, can't quit
saying, oh yes, oh yes.
Not since I dream there's a dead animal sewn in down
there with thick black fishing line. And the bad dead
animal smell cannot be removed. And its throat is slit
and it bleeds through all my summer dresses.
My vagina singing all girl songs, all goat bells
ringing songs, all wild autumn field songs, vagina
songs, vagina home songs.
Not since the soldiers put a long thick rifle inside
me. So cold, the steel rod cancelling my heart. Don't
know whether they're going to fire it or shove it
through my spinning brain. Six of them, monstrous
doctors with black masks shoving bottles up me too.
There were sticks, and the end of a broom.
My vagina swimming river water, clean spilling water
over sun-baked stones over stone clit, clit stones
over and over.
Not since I heard the skin tear and made lemon
screeching sounds, not since a piece of my vagina came
off in my hand, a part of the lip, now one side of the
lip is completely gone.
My vagina. A live wet water village. My vagina my
Not since they took turns for seven days smelling
like feces and smoked meat, they left their dirty
sperm inside me. I became a river of poison and pus
and all the crops died, and the fish.
My vagina a live wet water village.
They invaded it. Butchered it and burned it down.
I do not touch now.
Do not visit.
I live someplace else now.
I don't know where that is.