Under the Porch

Mine was a body
in agony, genitals
distended, breasts latent
on helium belly, as
disinterested interested people
wearing watches and shoes
filtered in and out.
It began to feel normal, my nudity
amongst the clothed as hours grew days.
If a dog is in agony in the road someone will
put him down but
no one stepped forward to knock
that soft place between my ears.
When a bitch hides
under the porch in the dirt or
cat under the woodstove hear it yowl
evoking pity and mirth
wild near-words of complaint.
But I was forced into the light, into scrutiny,
weighed and measured and timed.
Hold my hand my only comfort.
Some ice. And I responded well, that is,
remained pleasant, I asked
for nothing, did not
curse, or try to hit
people as they touched me
with their hands in cuffs and hems.
I moved as requested, answered
with civility and
accommodation. It is for this body,
raging, craving annihilation
and darkness, that I feel pity—
the body that was me giving birth.
Her please, her thank you.