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Cleansed
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Poetry about Rape The warm water of the baptismal pool
swirled between my legs, gripped
tender thighs, just as his fingers had
weeks before torn through my
trembling body as I lay stripped.
The softly swaying water shuddered
as I entered behind the minister.
How closely the faint shimmer of
water resembled the glinting knife
that had become the luminary of
nightmares that haunt even my waking life.
Soothing whispered words of prayer
by the gentle eyed minister,
were replaced by weighty echoes of that
scratchy voice thrusting lustful deisres
for my ears to bear in shame.
The minister, awaiting my consent,
as that man never had,
placed one small cool hand
over the crease of my mouth
and one behind my head.
The scent of warm chlorine
curdled into a recollection of his sour breath
and the stench of whiskey, sweat, and sex.
Tenderly my head dipped into the water.
Lifted out again, the we heair
hung heavily, a painful reminder of the
stinging that night, when he rocked my head
a steady rhythm against the top of the bed.
Coming from the pool I shivered
despite the warmth, and felt the
holy wter roll down off my skin
to splash against the tiled floor.
As if running from the filth still contained within
the curves of my own body.
And when the minister asked,
"How do you feel now",
I smiled and replied in false,
"Cleansed."
