Archaeology of Pain

by Joyce Nancy

When will I let myself write the history of our bodies?
Having been violated,
we are spitting words at men like acid,
pressing our hipbones sharp against them, vitriolic.

Having been violated,
we take turns digging deadly holes to bury each other.
We press our hipbones sharp into men, vitriolic,
but no matter how many we hurt, we are not excavated.

We take turns digging holes to bury each other,
and sifting through sand, try to unearth memories, knowing
no matter how many men we hurt, we are not excavated.
You suppress the secrets under my breath, lips to my lips.

Trying to unearth memories, we sift through the sand,
but my mind is matted under the weight, wet after rain.
You suppress the secrets under my breath, lips to my lips,
and your voice sculpts me as a statue, wide eyes staring blankly.

My mind is matted under the weight, wet after rain.
Despite spitting words at men like acid for years,
your voice still sculpts me as a statue, wide eyes staring blankly.
When will I let myself write the history of our bodies?