He examined her like a (w)horse…
talked of her strength and prowess,
and the power of her potential
to turn him a profit.
And in the desecrated marriage bed
of his sickroom, he treated her like a
(w)hores,
watching his ill-gotten get
pad his ill-gotten gains.
And in the quiet after midnight,
her tears and blood could not be placed
on a speared sponge, and touched to
chapped, split, sobbing lips.
And sometimes in the quiet after midnight,
the midwives did their cleaning up,
and sometimes the scavengers fed.
But in the best of cases,
the sires of their own ‘property’
took their child’s place
in the unmarked, remote, and lonely graves.
Beyond Panic 