My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow mooing sun resting sweet boyfriend touching lightly with soft piece of blond straw.
There is something between my legs. I do not know what it is. I do not know where it is. I do not touch. Not now. Not anymore. Not since.
My vagina was chatty, can’t wait, so much, so much saying, words talking, can’t quit trying, can’t quit saying, oh yes, oh yes.
Not since I dream there’s a dead animal sewn in down there with thick black fishing line. And the bad dead animal smell cannot be removed. And its throat is slit and it bleeds through all my summer dresses.
My vagina singing all girl songs, all goat bells ringing songs, all wild autumn field songs, vagina songs, vagina home songs.
Not since the soldiers put a long thick rifle inside me. So cold, the steel rod canceling my heart. Don’t know whether they’re going to fire it or shove it through my spinning brain. Six of them, monstrous doctors with black masks shoving bottles up me too. There were sticks, and the end of a broom.
My vagina swimming river water, clean spilling water over sun-baked stones over stone clit, clit stones over and over.
Not since I heard the skin tear and made lemon screeching sounds, not since a piece of my vagina came off in my hand, a part of the lip, now one side of the lip is completely gone.
My vagina. A live wet water village. My vagina my hometown.
Not since they took turns for seven days smelling like feces and smoked meat, they left their dirty sperm inside me. I became a river of poison and pus and all the crops died, and the fish.
My vagina a live wet water village.
They invaded it. Butchered it and burned it
I do not touch now.
Do not visit.
I live someplace else now.
I don’t know where that is.
(Hear it recited here)
An estimated 20,000 to 50,000 women were raped during the Bosnian Genocide. Amnesty reminds that out of the tens of thousands of alleged crimes of sexual violence committed against women and girls during the Bosnian war, fewer than 40 cases have been prosecuted by either the Hague Tribunal, or courts in Bosnia. (x)
I will take you to
museums, and parks, and monuments,
and kiss you in every beautiful
place, so that you can
never go back to them
without tasting me
like blood in your mouth.
I will destroy you in the most
beautiful way possible.
And when I leave
you will finally understand,
why storms are named after people.”