untitled 1.25.12

I've been trying to write
something that can't be written.

About how words I read
in black & white on a screen,
I heard slapping sounds
and I went to investigate
have lodged themselves firmly
and absolutely in my brain,
reverberating, shrieking,
unstoppable and unbearable.

About how a child's body
is not meant to accommodate
the thrusts of an adult man
that would cause such a sound.

About how a child must have died
that day in that shower,
thrown away like so much trash,
when he should have been running
out in the yard, playing games
like the child that he was.

About how a child must have been
literally torn apart, then discarded.

About how small and fragile
my children's bodies and hearts are.

About how I know that children
are raped every day,
a child is being raped right now
as I write this, and
a child will be raped as you read it,
no matter how many times you do.

About how adults with power,
men, and probably women, too--
and by the way all adults have power
over all children in our world--
about how adults could have stopped it,
saving a child from being ravaged
and more children after that.

About how they did not.

About the reasons why that might be.

About how the eulogies
for the man who could have stopped it
washed over me, and I had to hide.

About that sound. That fucking sound.

About how someone reading this
will find it arousing.

About how someone really needs to write about that.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Bewildered Bug challenged me with "Scam Artist" and I challenged Dili with "Seeing monarchs, robins, or hummingbirds?"