A conference theatre, unfilled, the field;
green folding chairs, strewn, the crop.
Some poor woman, older, robust, sexless to me,
sits, cross angled.
Her seat folds, becomes a vice;
her fingers caught, trapped, raped, crushed.
Her shouts scorch, stark pain,
boiling crescendo. People rush. Not me.
I am shock still,
stunned by lust, by shame.
I can’t forgive me this.
This poem was published in the Autumn 2K2 edition of Subverse.