Drive

The stripped woman cups her last drink of water into her dirty, shivering hands Anarchy about her, the glaring sun draws nearer upon the bright, bedazzled eyes They watch her in awe as her parched lips suckle the musty, muddied moisture It shoots awe in her throbbing veins as they beat her for her brazenness and beauty Agony draws her on like a mad man awaiting the hushed silence of death’s embrace Men grab her, laughing like hyenas, and tuck her into that filthy, reeking potato sack Her stringy hair, filled with sweat and endurance, lands in her mouth; droplets fall They roughly haul her into the truck again and hit the road, as miles must be driven She will fall, they say; she will beg to die at the master’s feet—and they’ll oblige She will not let them see her—she will cry alone into the sack till the next stop. . .