She Will Burn in Sacrifice to His Smallness: A Poem for Abused Friends We Couldn’t Save
You try to look away. You can’t. She places one foot in front of the other, knowingly and deliberately, as she walks into his human-sized meat grinder. You watch up until the very last second before she’s snatched in headlong. Your stomach swirls like the mechanizations of the trap, teeth he’s sharpened and shined for the inevitable return of his chosen meat. You listen to the groan of the bars, screech of wheels turning, her staring ahead, unblinking, sleepwalking, yet you still cling to hope. Will she turn on her heel and run for safety at the very last? Before she is sucked deep into the curling steel? Or will she glide into the machine in gentle passivity, as quietly as the monk who lit himself on fire in protest of the Vietnam War? She will. But for what cause will she die? She’ll burn as uselessly as a treasured 900-year-old cathedral burns, horrified onlookers gazing at the emblazoned Parisian sky. She’ll die as senselessly as children whose black shadows still haunt walls in Hiroshima. She’ll die as toddlers die in their mother‘s arms in cancer wards. She’ll die like a kitten tied in a plastic bag dies at the bottom of a river. She’ll die the worst kind of death, a death for nothing. She will burn willingly for his insanity, she’ll die in sacrifice to his smallness. She’ll die for sheer waste, waste, and nothing at all but that.
Photo by Most Exalted
Model: Andrea Fekete