Beneath her bedding was an enormous heap. Hundreds of bundles of money.
They bore the faces of her country’s heroes. And the autographs of her government’s thieves.
A large white blanket lay over the heap. Once pure now patched with dirt, blood, sweat.
It was a gift from her mother, three years ago. Given on the day of her wedding.

The dirt came from the revolution. When the young couple moved to the hills.
The blood, when she lost her children. At the riot against the regime.
And the sweat, oh the endless nights of anguish. Until they found her husband’s body.
His teeth showed through his cheek. Where they cracked the butt of their guns.

Tonight as with every fortnight. She will escort her hoard through the hills.
For this world in arms is not spent money alone. It is buying the hopes of her children.
She lay on her crisp and precious bundles. And the only relic of her future.
She smiled at the thought of her awesome destiny. She is envoy, soldier and fighter.

But this morning she is woman, she is goddess. She is the icon the congress worships.
Her face bears the symmetry of a perfect axiom. Her body is an eternal maze.
Her enemy’s uniform is on the floor. He has relinquished his weapons to her devotion.
In a country desperate to kill, there is a peculiar madness. A desperation to fuck.

He pushed up her arms to bare her breasts. She quivers this act of surrender.
Yet the fear quickly turns into a delicious spasm. As he suckles her, tender and sore.
She remembers when she nursed her children, she smiles. She closes her eyes.
But his mouth jars her motherly dream, as his tongue laps her. She takes a moment to look at his face.

He is young, but his cheeks are shallow. His nose brawled, broken.
His lips are lusciously red but his teeth yellow, rotted. She can break them with her fist.
He had dark thick hair, meticulously clean skin. Must be from the city, must hate it in the country.
When he lifted his head, she saw his eyes. She pretended not to see.

They were delirious, insubordinate, quenchless. She watched him very closely as his hand reached down.
His fingers spread open her vestibule and she unfolded. Her wetness seeped to the blanket.
His eyes glowed with a deep famished fire. She collected her strength and defiance.
She is promised a queen’s morning and she will claim it. She felt the hard head of his phallus.

A breathy cry came from her throat when he pushed. She refused to close her eyes.
He pushed deeper, some more, his hands tight around her waist. He too, unblinking.
Their eyes locked in a stare, suspicious, untrusting, alert. The deathly glow in his eyes raged.
She kept her arms over her head and reached out. Down she felt the smooth buffalo horn of a knife.

They came, their voices floated, travelled. A gust of wind diverted the sounds of their pleasure.
From the public market, high above the empty huts and dissolute paddies. Into the woods.
She witnessed the capitulation in his eyes, calm like a pool of water. Their chestnut colours brightened.
She let go of the buffalo horn, she closed her eyes. And they fucked again.

Fatima Lasay San Roque
Saturday, February 1, 2014

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