Bastard Be Gentle

 
She put almost all her faith  
in God
kept her skirts short  
and let her hair fall down past her waist
with no mind for the vultures
who might pester the vulnerability
of a woman walking alone
 
Her legs were still good
and she knew the men liked to watch
as every morning she strolled slowly  
by their bench in the park
 
While she visited the store
she imagined they exchanged remarks
debating the different styles she wore  
carefully noting the hemlines of her skirt
or the color of her stockings on a Friday
so she felt it her duty  
to choose a different outfit each day
keeping them eager  
for the snap of her heels  
on the path
 
She’d found nothing in the Bible
that said turning heads was a sin
It seemed only a mild diversion
deflecting her from impurer thoughts  
no doubt sent by the Devil himself
to lure soft brown thighs and breasts
into lecherous fornication  
the lust that could claim your soul
for eternal hellfire
 
She wondered at such hideous thoughts
which drove the ache between her legs
skewered her like a fifty cent whore
tore off her clothes in the bushes
where three men at a time
spilled their thick white seed
filling up her secret places
until the sky whirled about her ears
strangling the remnants of her faith
as she cried:  "Bastard
Be gentle"
then begged them for more
 
And every night now
the same dream for a week
On Sunday she would ask the priest
why all that pleasure
made you so sore