[Here’s a poem that will be appearing alongside work by 35 other authors in the coming-soon Crisis Chronicles Press publication Fuck Poetry.]
She said I fucked her
But she pretty
Had it backwards
Wouldn’t take back her words til
They’d already escaped and
It was too late.
They were lies
How could she lie
On her back with her hands pinned
High above her head by mine
While I ate her vagina?
My arms aren’t that long
But it did not matter
To the so-called long arm of the law
Which insisted on reaching longer than it was meant to
Like someone trying to overcompensate.
She said she’d never fucked before
But the doctor who said
There was no sign of rape
Said she had
Or at least that her hymen was broken.
Before that she told me she had
But told me not to tell her dad or mother
They wouldn’t understand
Her dad especially (she had no brother)
Would demand the blood of any prick
Who dared pluck her so-called cherry
And she wouldn’t want that to happen
To her very frightened eighteen-year-old boyfriend
Who I thought resembled a queer in headlights.
You might say
But I swear I did not see it coming.
Actually no one saw the predictable come
Not the doctor
There was no semen to be seen
When he performed the rape kit
Though she swore there should be.
But my court appointed attorney
Was out to sea you might say
With the flu the two days of my trial
So the lyre was allowed to play me the musician
Like a black magician
And the following day the music
Subsided with the tidal rush
Let everyone else go on with their lives on shore
While I was crushed
In the vortex of the ocean