his hands knew not the heat
they were weathered leather
that tossed me about
agitating my fibers
in the suds adulterated
with the soil and soot of my being
from those depths
I was flung into the air
to smash against a rock
again and again and then
plunged into the clear rinse
the cold water of the earth
soaking my soul with its wet
his fingers the hooks to pull
at my flesh
and thresh the perfumed soap
out of me
to repeat the toss in the air
and plummet against stone
and the twisting clench
the wringing of my body
to pour my condition
out onto the thirsty grass
and thrown onto the sisal
where wooden teeth sink
into my worn, aching skin
and I dripped into the wind...
will you cut me down
when I hang to dry
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