The Rape of Candace

That man they call her husband presses down
on her side of the bed in absent haste.
Her body, half obscured beneath her gown,
grows heavy in its apathy.  Distaste
draws lines across her thin and wrinkled lips.
He’s grunting like a bear that’s made a kill
as she ignores the spreading of her hips
and lays beneath the fucker, stony still.
He’s gone again and Candace starts to tear
his filthy linens from her wasted bed.
She digs a hole to bury her despair
and tosses in her soiled gown instead.
The absence of the man fulfills one need,
as Candace waits the month and hopes to bleed.

Leave a Reply