Rape Therapy

That I am a mother, you do not know-
you who eyed me a can
to be emptied in a gulp.
Tin, skin and never a soul, never whole;
you found me a honeycomb,
a fruit you beat into pulp.
But the womb
was never yours, and you
never were a man.

That I am a mermaid, you do not know-
you who fixed me a Saree
when lust swam about in your eyes.
Legs, eggs and meat; never complete-
you wanted me a meal,
a drink, a drug to lend you those highs.
But the feel
was never yours, and you
never were a daddy.

I once drew a cow tethered to a yoke
and then I erased it fearing the men
who'd come for its milk.
I was too young to think; I was too young I think
for I had erased the cow and nothing else.

My memory is a coward
still yoked to the men I'd not drawn.

That I am a murderer, you do not know-
you who raped me with silences
and reaped me for seasons.

That I killed myself and that I killed you
when I said nothing and fulfilled you-
this you do not know.

That I am a medicine, you do not know-
you who are healed where I'm held.