Afterimage

The walls close in on her.

Time ticks on the longcase clock.

The birds, outside, flit about.

The sun rose a few moments ago.

She bites the inside of her cheeks.

Don't spit the blood.

Do not spit the blood.

The searing metal taste

distracts her mind

for just a second,

perhaps more.

She suffocates, white dots dance

in front of her gaze.

She could almost touch the walls.

He tore through her underwear

like kids at Christmas with their presents.

He won't look her in the eyes,

his hot breath filling her ear,

his massive body piles up on hers.

The pain she cannot bear.

Spitting the blood would only enrage him.

Playing dead the only unway out.

He is a boar. The hair on his back

like barkish, briary bristle.

His beady face contorts, she can feel it.

His snout burrows in her neck.

He grunts like a wild animal.

The last thrusts of his hips,

and then the silence.

The walls of the bedroom

dangerously close.

The boar's muzzle lifts up

his tusks grazes her neck –

in the corner of her eye she sees

that the little one looks on, his head

leaning on the door frame – he does

wonder why the bed is not made.

He's been told one can't start the day

if one doesn't make their bed.

His wee hand rests on the wood,

she cannot read his face.

How long has he been looking.

Does it matter, eventually.

He knows. He must.

He may ask at prayers.

She will say nothing.

Yet she knows, she knows if she doesn't

he will want to try it out for himself.

The little one is shy, for now.

But one day he will be a man.

She will nonetheless say nothing.

The boar stands up on his hind legs,

tucks up his shirt in his dungarees,

buckles up his leather belt –

no, he won't look her in the eyes.

The little one has gone,

fled before the boar

who walks out

dragging his limp leg

on the wooden floor.

Time still ticks away in the corridor –

were it not for the birds outside

time would stand still

and she would lay here on her side –

yet all she wants now is kill,

kill and die. Kill and die.

Her folks would take care

of the little one. They would.

But she stands up,

straightens up the skirt,

kerchiefs the tears,

the hair tightened

back into the usual bun

– the blood and semen

coiling around her thighs

will have to be washed –

but right now for the love of god

make the bed, make the damn bed

carefully as she always does

for no one can start their day

if one doesn't make their bed.