The Rape A Poem

by Regis Boff

When the insect raped me.
It knew I wasn’t going to tell.
I wrapped it in brown paper
and took it home
and hid it.
I never expected it to be pleased.
My every sleep invites it to climb on me.
The claw hands are fiddling my skin flattening my body with its heavy insect carapace.
You do your bug things to me.
The viscous pooled beetle drool,
crusts on my face and breasts.
You murmur to me in the low humming pitch
of warm August night locusts,
“Do you remember our first time?.”
Finished, you drape your antennae over the pillow next to mine,
vainly adjusting your curls.
You whisper,
“Are you dead yet? It won’t be much longer, dear.”
I hear the rustle of its sperm larva starting to hatch inside me.
“I am ready to die,” I say to its pleasure.
It will relax now, in the quiet old chair next to my bed.
To watch me cry until it is ready again
Each night is an empty oath to die.
At breakfast, with it across the table from me,
the question comes, “So what shall we do today?
So casually it says this that I am confused.
So this was how the two of us began.
One of us repulsed while the other pretends to reform.
It’s talons still hurt me while we walk hand in hand.
As the lovers I know it must believe we now are.
My hand curves around its claw, testifying against the bloodless cold casing.
I caress it and raise it gently to my cheek
and then to my kiss.
And my deceit can hold no estate in its soul.
Once we lose all hope of love, we always disappear into what has hurt us most.
Life never allows you to feel nothing at all.