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.
