Reading Minnie Bruce Pratt

I was reading her book: "We Say We love Each Other."
I wanted to stop. But as surely as the drive to work
    down the boulevard frightened her, I could not stop.

I wanted to sleep, to run away from the fear
    which dripped from every venemous word which burned my mind,
    the image of castrated men screaming rage at the one who would avenge
    the lovers who had been raped.

I could not stop.
I read of the road from Mobile to Jackson, from
    Montgomery to Birmingham to Washington DC
    to.. .wherever. About love of woman for woman.

But I am drawn back from love through hate --
    to fear -- to Birmingham -- to fear--
    to Boston -- to fear -- to race for life and sanity --
    to rape and fear of both life and death

And I am near to hating men
    for what they have done to the innocent her.

I read on -- drawn from reflection on my own hate and fear --
    back to the flowing images --
        asleep in each others arms--
            a zaftig belly --
                softer breasts --
        grief -- pain -- the words flowing like water --
            no - like blood across the bed.

I begin to understand. The search for peace --
    the place without sorrow.
The love with fear. The razor marks -- the resignation -- the frustration --

What will be different now?

I close the book.
The conflict is real, I hate the war.

If only the words would come,
    that I could reveal with naked clarity
    the grotesque absurdity
    and abject ugliness I see in man.

I cry at the vision of forced and cruel entry,
    the recurring nightmares, the shivering on a warm night.

I hold her close, the swell of anger and hatred
never ending.