being beaten. The rape fixation is one I
couldn’t satisfy. Poverty begrimed eyes more
starkly, deathly blue than Jen’s, jet-black
bangs a Gothic translation of Jen’s golden
ones, I couldn’t give her what she wanted,
not well. So, the night our wars took on flesh,
I found myself strained, poked into being
pushy, pushed myself into aggression which
wasn’t really in me to express. Spaced, in a nowhere
space between her legs where I both was
& couldn’t be, the light in the dorm room
remained on, made garish an engorged sense of horror
we both had: I did it. A Gothic incision: doom.
Something gloomy about small towns, small town
girls: macabre undercurrents follow them around,
amidst the farms, lakes, forests, extended foliage.
The grim reaper likes forests as much as cities,
& the naked flesh of small-town nubiles is as
Hawthorne’d as an even more abject Hester Prynne.
Cobwebs, soot, mud, grease, blood— it’s all
smeared on the two-backed beast, when & if
it happens there. Now, it had happened to
me twice running— suburban, well-situated,
unused to being blood-drenched, ripe to hit
my head on rocks. Jennifer made loud noises
to cover the anguish. Carrie waited darkly
to be punished. The seed-carrier was ignorant. No bliss.
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