(One poem removed at request of author)
Out behind the wooden shed,
where large, gray, important machines
are kept, he held me down.
His hand encircled my neck,
the tips of his fingers leaving
traceable indents in the soft patch of skin
some man misnamed the jugular.
The heel of his hand pressed into
the round bone of my spine, a hold
of submission, tactile traces of domination,
saying simply with the crease of his knuckles
that this is the way it has always been:
strong over weak, and this farm
could easily be a cave or a stadium,
a home among the stars and gods;
it didnít matter. He had me
in a grip that was possession,
not needing speech beyond a grunt
because this was animal law, and his
was an animal language;
eyes flared, hands tight and red with
the internal fusion and rush of blood,
hard all over,
in his heart, and below.
He removed pieces of me in strips and hung them
on a hook to dry and be salted.
His stomach in my back, he breathed on me,
heatedly, as if I would bring him luck;
a broken talisman he shaped into a receptacle
for his tainted magic. Rise and fall and
rise and fall and the spell is broken,
spring is renewed.
When he was through he turned me over,
placed his lips above mine and
spat slowly into my open mouth,
gently brushed the hair from my eyes and left me;
seeds and my body pushed to the ground
among the flowers and coming rain
© 2001 Sean David Ross
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