Chris Rice Cooper

Chris Rice Cooper
Chris, September 18, 2017

Tuesday, June 20, 2017

Poem Dedicated To The Girls and Women of Juarez, Mexico . . .

Christal Cooper


*Image and poem attributed to Christal Rice Cooper and copyright granted by Christal Rice Cooper

Lady of the Dead
*Dedicated to the girls and women of Juarez

The men stood in line, as if they were
waiting for their last sip of tequila.

How many were there?
I do not remember.

How long did it last?
I do not remember;

only them tearing me in two
celebrating.

My blood and their white semen
drying like paint

on my edifices:
vagina, anus, belly button, mouth, ears, eyes, and nose;

mauled and savaged by:
penises, fingers, tongues, and knives.

My nipples cut,
kept as souvenirs

my flesh ripped,
still attached to my bones.

Now I am a marred living sacrifice
that not even the devil would accept.

“Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy!
My life, my sweetness, and my hope!

To thee do I cry,
Poor banished daughter of Eve

To thee do I send up my sighs, mourning,
and weeping in this desert of tears.

Turn, then, most gracious Advocate,
Thine eyes of mercy toward me;”

Their fingers tight snakes
pulverized my neck.

Their fists heavy tombs
crushed my chest.

My spirit, my eyes, my flesh
sliced, slashed, ripped from
my body, my socket;

like the flesh of a grape
sliced, slashed.

“Pray for me a sinner, now
and at the hour of my death.  Amen.”

They position my body
on my back,

spread open and wide
like a pigeon.

“God!
Why do I only see Your back?”

“Jesus!
Why do I only see your dead body?”

“Holy Spirit!
Why have You fled from me?”

“Hail, Holy Queen Mother of Mercy!
I feel you;

your hands upon my womb and sex,
beneath my back,

gently rolling me
my face embraced by the sand,

my sex and distorted breasts
hidden from view.

And after this my exile
Show unto me the blessed fruit of thy womb.”

God’s back is no longer turned against me
  
Jesus’s body is alive

I feel the comfort
of the Holy Spirit.

I hold the marigolds in one hand.
stars in the other,

slicing the night of death,
the death of night;

piercing the day of light,
the light of day.

My breasts swell and rise
still missing nipples

now rosebuds
blooming in my cheeks.

are pearls of white power

that explode when I throw them
at their bloodstained feet.


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