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Poem

It is her body by God, so they say,
But by man and by rite, she belongs to him.
The contract, black and white swirls, binding,
signed in ink that bleeds into chains.

He takes her as he pleases.
The decision is not hers to make.
Face buried, held by the ringed hand,
pressed into the pillow to smother resistance.

His knees split her legs, forcing them wide.
Fingers, wet with spit, force entry,
preparing her body for what she does not want.
Her muffled squeaks, please, no more—
trapped beneath the weight of an uncaring predator.

His release. Her shame.
The spot of blood staining the sheets,
a mark not of love, not of union,
but of violence written into law.

She will abide.
She will cry later.
She will wake, stretch sore limbs,
and pretend she was not taken in the night.

He owns her.
She knows.
And so does the world that does nothing.

The vows were a noose.
The wedding bed, a tomb.
And the law—
the law calls it his right.

And history will remember the cowards.

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