She walked briskly. The distance between the hut and the hillside.
It was about a dozen of the the lord’s prayer. She tried to remember it in Latin.
She sang it sometimes. She stopped when she reached the swidden farm.
And began to dig for the yams. He looked at her from a distance.
The sun was kind to her. It warmed her when she sweated.
And the cool wind dried the skin under her dress. She wore a scarf.
Around her head it suck up the sweat on her cheeks. Sunburnt.
She swung the machete. The vines fell to her feet.
She did not hear him walk through the vines. She did not see.
Her dress, the wind and the sun insulated her. Kept her.
Her scarf shielded her simple mind. A mind that knew only yams.
And a Latin prayer. He stood behind her and gathered all of his strength.
He flung his arms around her. She was too simple to be stunned.
She laughed when she saw his hands. She knew them.
The boy who walked funny. The boy who talked to her often.
The boy who knew about fish and asked about the yams. She laughed.
He tightened his grip and pulled her. He did not hear her laugh.
They fell amongst the vines. Her digging bar rolled beside them.
He tied her hands to it with the vines. He kept her scarf on her face.
She hushed and he looked around them. There was a cloud far away.
He found her knees and flung her dress. He pushed her legs apart.
The sun kissed her vagina. Smooth like white temple flowers.
He rubbed her and she giggled. The flower glistened with dew.
A shadow came upon them. He thought it was a cloud.
The men and women of the village. Condemned the sexing of the angels.
She was a dim-witted slut. He was a rapist.
He was 15 when they put him in prison. He was 16 when they took him out.
There was no blood left in his body. Murder said the yams.
Fatima Lasay, San Roque
January 9, 2014