He asked us what
we are witnesses of.
They suggested the obvious.
"September 11th!"
someone called excitedly.
Enthusiasm does not suit me
for such an instance.

He asked us what
we are witnesses of.
One woman announces the humorous,
"Michael Jackson's transformation!"
and I chuckle with
the laugh track of the room.
Not everything is black or white.

He asked us what
we are witnesses of.
And I keep my story to myself.
"The rape of an innocent girl."
Yes, rape,
because even though
the sex was consensual,
her spirit was never given the chance
to scream
her shame.

Perhaps her mother warned her
to wear clean underwear
if she went out,
but she didn't plan to go anywhere
that day,
and her dirty panties were tossed
to the floor.

And perhaps she was just cold
looking for warmth,
and with her boy-love so far away,
warmth was only the nearest hand
creeping up her thigh.

She looked at me
with silent eyes
that had run out of tears.
She did not cry out,
not once.
She did not moan or sigh
as he pumped his death
through her vacancies
like a cheap motel.

He asked us what
we are witnesses of.
And I shrug my shoulders
uncomfortably, as if trying
to shed an old coat.
"Nothing important,"
I lie.

12/04/2001

Posted on 12/04/2001
Copyright © 2024 Meredith C Hartwell