On reading about two children under 11 who were raped by soldiers in Sudan by Cath Blackfeather

If I were the only little girl

Who was held down

And raped

That would be one too many.

..

If these two little girls

Whose bodies were split apart,

Their secret, sacred places

Made into raw meat,

Were the only ones,

That would be too many.

..

I am sinking under

The sewage tide of

Laughing, cheerful men,

With eyes fixed zealously on

Their great tasks,

The wonders they will perform

To make the world in their own image,

While little bodies lie stunned

Under them.

I can’t give up,

Because they don’t.

I have to keep going,

Because they do.

..

My crone-womb hangs

Like a dry piece of meat

In the bone-bowl of me.

But it speaks in the quietest,

Deepest voice of all.

A whisper that is of the Earth.

That shrieks the rage the outrage

Of us all.

It is our blood that is sacrificed

In this most un-sacred way.

..

When mothers tramp thousands of miles

To find a safe place for their daughters

And are turned away, traded and discarded,

Again and again.

And they walk on, further.

I, too, must hold on.

Because they do.

I have to remember who I am,

Because they do.

2 thoughts on “On reading about two children under 11 who were raped by soldiers in Sudan by Cath Blackfeather

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