By Abigail Martin
When I fall asleep, the sheep I count are screams.
Some mine, some theirs, some delighted, some scared-
No difference.
When I fall asleep, the sound haunts my dreams,
Leaving my ribs ripped wide open, heart bared:
Eternal consequence.
When I wake up, the rest of me unravels,
The missing tissue they massacred still burning
From the flames of my survival.
When I wake up, my knees are dirt and gravel:
Like the blood under my nails, no amount of yearning
Could erase the signs of my revival.
The ancient leather bites, and great teeth rip
Bloody patterns into my spine
They tell me to count, so I bite my lip:
I’ll recite no prayers; I’ll intone no line.
My heavy head bows, an unwilling incline
Towards lines scored deep by shredded fingertips
An unholy mark at odds with the divine
And the worship found in the strike of a whip.
The stone floor trembles, and scattered gunfire
Ricochets its cacophony in my ears
Harmonious hands lift from my altar to their pyre:
I’ll burn to their chants; I’ll bleed to their cheer.
There are eyes at my eyes, forehead shining with fear
They bury a knife in my gut, blade wrapped in live wire,
Drag my still-breathing corpse, while I cry bloody tears
Until the shouting stops: we’ve reached ceasefire.
I reach for my lamp, I’m reaching blind
Hand outstretched to traumas I should leave behind
In that cavernous chamber, with its cowering crowd.
When I fall asleep, the screams I count are loud.