Turbulent rivers
With riotous waters
Rooted from my angst-ridden soul
Born in my eyes
Powered by weakened blinks
Flowing on cheeks
And fading on lips
Rivers of all seasons
Eroding my magic smile

Every cock-crow,
I’m an object of satisfaction.
Whether four or times without number,
To him it doesn’t matter
When I complain,
He bungles me with lethal lexis,
Sometimes cuddling me with potent fists,
Or spraying me with roses of spikes.
Should I call this love?
What is rape if this isn’t one?

A week ago he punched me
In presence of our children
Because I asked him
Why he came home late
His violent fists, like bombs exploding,
landed like hailstorm on my face
‘Bambo a Dambizo mukundipheranji ine?’ I screamed
my breath faded slowly
before my eyes.
On my wounds he rubbed salt
Saying that it was my fault

Fellow mothers enlighten me
For how long shall I watch these rivers
Wearing down my cheeks
with scorching waters?
If this isn’t one, then what is domestic violence?

Again, today, he just pulled
And forced me on bed
In just flash of seconds
Vomited in me once
Expecting me to vomit for nine months
How will the would be seventh child
Survive in my haggard womb?
Nurses and doctors tell me
Is this what you call motherhood?
Preachers tell me
Is this what you expect from proverbs 31 woman?

One day, not far away, I promise
I’ll chop this finger carrying my abhorrent wedding ring,
and fade away into thin air
to find solace for my soul

©Christopher E. Loti
(Chris the poet)