by Daniel Bosch
Plain purple t-shirt torn open,
Front-closing lace-front bra, unsnapped.
Red canvas espadrilles shoved in
Soft mud with blood almost black.
Belt loose of all but one belt loop.
Ratted hair trapped in wet bunches.
Hips small but arched like a roof
Raised by sharp stones at her haunches.
Bruises where a blue windbreaker’s
Arms are pulled tight at her neck.
Upper arms broken in places
Exposed as she tried to deflect
More blows. Contusions on cheekbones.
Blood smear across lower spine
Fingers of right and grasp at stones
And four quarters form a vague line.
Here to the road. Broken teeth, mud.
Underpants intact: no semen,
No stray pubic hair, no skin rubbed
Raw, but a saliva specimen
Dries on her still-extended
Left middle-finger as if
She wiped her lips as it ended
And flipped the camera off as she went stiff.
Daniel Bosch lives and writes in Boston. (1994)