Lotus

Common Expression by Frances Driscoll

The man above me.... saying something…..…
…………….over and over the same
……What. ………you saying, I am
saying.….he is still saying …………
………using the sound……to take him
……………………… someplace inside me
…………..I feel nothing ………….
cheap.……………………………………..
……………..the worst. ……………….
….waiting for it please to stop. Escape……
…………………….. nothing but one
…………………….. But I don't know
………... I don't know that
until morning …….I remember when
I heard that…………………….
over and over ………. a man's mouth
like that…….like that.
……………… sounds I can not place
keep coming out of me.
I remember not knowing what would happen
when he stopped. Life
….death was all I thought was
at stake. …………imagine this.


Sunday Morning By Anita B

It could be dark, it could be light.
A room of a silent noise
compresses my brain into screams.
Silence forced; my eyes stolen.
The emptiness of this place,
I cannot hear. Desperate for my body,
but it does not move.
I cannot feel.

Am I dead? Panic fills me.
A cold trickle pressing,
gripping at my heart.
A taste on my tongue;
metal and bubblegum,
smoke and sweat,
salt in the back of my throat.
What is that taste?
Life seeping back into my heavy limbs,
cramps, pins and needles.

A drum beating in my head,
I groan, muffled and distant.
The pain is spreading,
rubbing my breasts,
scraping at my nerves.
Whirling round and round.

Seconds, minutes, hours.
I smell nausea on the pillow beside me.
The spinning has stopped.
I sit up slowly, and shiver,
the chill of the room hits my skin.
My hands spring to my breasts,
fingers send streams of fire through soft tissue.
I am sick, I am sore, I am naked.
Where am I now?
How did I get here?
I am in a bedroom, my room?
Last night’s clothes are on the floor,
empty water glasses stand on the desk.
There is blood, not much,
spots of red glare at me amidst the whiteness.
I put my hand between my thighs,
I feel the wet soreness there,
a tear slides underneath my lashes.
I am alone.