Joy Division.
She had to be enthusiastic,To appear interested and stimulated
To avoid the fists, the kicks, the worse:
She became expert at the simulated –
She could move,
She could moan,
She could encourage a quick end
To be left alone
Just that extra few minutes
Before the next in the queue
Started his rough-eager,
Sensitive-absent screw.
She wasn't Jewish
So the chamber wasn't her final solution;
A Pole, Catholic, entered as relief for the guards:
On her back – a spinal pollution
To keep the masters
From frustration
Or from picking Hebrew homosexuals
To populate their lust-station.
There was no Sabbath
Of rest or respite
And no halt sounded:
It carried on despite
Monthly considerations –
A few turned up their noses
But most, in animal ignoring,
Continued smelling roses.
How she thought the others coped,
She didn't know, didn't ask:
Her numbing concentration taught her
How to complete the task.
The them became the one;
Each different was changed
Into just him:
The many rearranged
Into the same head,
The same stubble
On the held neck
As she prayed for rubble
To take the place
Of the camp -
At a time when her held-back tears would be free
To glint in the flicker of the lamp.
13:07, Tue. 03/11/2015.
Poetry by Mark J. Wood
Read 1112 times
Written on 2015-11-06 at 12:08
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