deepundergroundpoetry.com
her name unspoken
when she goes to the market, they look at her.
she checks the peaches for firmness, squeezing them, &
the men get dirty pictures in their heads. when she stands
meekly in the checkout, the women move to another lane.
as she walks down the street with a bag of groceries, a truck
pulls up; the driver reconnoiters her long silken legs. ‘hey baby
how much?’ she rushes along with the red of hurt on her cheeks.
it must be written on my face, she allows; she accuses the mirror,
& of course it’s not there, but she sees it nonetheless. branded
there when she was very young by the boys who dared her: ‘do
this for me & I will love you.’ a man is perversely hideous beyond
what a female could be, but a man will never love a slut.
if a woman is a whore for one man or a hundred,
she is still a whore.
I’m the one, she tells me. the man of dirgeful moods who makes her
dirty, out of my need & her devotion. she gives me her heart & her
body; I use her heart as my pillow when I sleep, & defile her Galatean
flesh as if I had the right. she was not a whore until I named her.
the word that pulsates just above her cinereal eyes, as if it were
tattooed in lipstick. it judges her by a sobriquet that she was never
meant to be: wanton seductress, known only by the primitive allure
of her cunt. it trails behind her like a prostituted shadow when she
goes to the market.
don’t speak her name. her name is whore…
(Art: ThreeGracesPhotography)
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