Rape is a wounding, unlooked for and heavy with someone else’s footsteps trampling the dust where your soul once dreamed. Left alone in the road, scattered and broken, many of us haven’t even ears left to hear the stone’s wailing into the void for us. But the stones do wail: they wailed for Inanna, broken, dead and rotting on the meathook, and Inanna could not hear. The stones wailed also for Ereshkigal, in labor and mourning the loss of her husband. It was the stones’ bearing witness to Ereshkigal that moved her to resurrect her sister Inanna from the sleep of the dead. As the stones wail for the earth itself, surely they wail for me and my name will be heard in the litany they sing to the stars. The power of that song of sorrow is the power of death, and of the life that springs forth from death.
The wind blows upon my scattered bits of self and rearranges them in patterns drawn by the wailing of the stones. Tears fall from the stars and moisten my dust into mud: I am reformed of mud. I will never again be the bright maiden I was when his horses overtook me, my pale hair and clear skin shining among the dew wet flowers — I am mud, and dust; the stones’ wailing and the stars’ tears forever. I ooze slowly upright, and with mudded muted ears I hear the wailing of the stones. Overwhelmed by the eeriness of overheard grief, I lose myself again and grow a mouth that I might join in the dirge. After much time; in no time: I hear my name in the litany and grow arms to raise to the sky, beseeching the heavens to tell me why? I wrap these arms around myself when the sun does not bleed an answer. But the sun does shine, and in the noon heat my mud dries a little, not hardening but gaining form made of plasticity and need. I am ears and mouth and arms; wailing and consolation are all that interest me. At last I sleep:
Naked and bloody stand I before those who would destroy me just for being. It is only now that I see they have no eyes with which to see me, no heart in which to hold me, no hands with which to reach for me… it is only now that I see that I am the one with eyes, and heart, and hands. Though my blood still pounds at the threat of their presence I stand with power born of the wailing of stones, the tears of the stars, and the soothing of the sun’s rays upon my mudded, blooded heart.
When I awake I dream of one who has found their own eyes and heart, who will choose to meet my hands with their own and turn with me to the future: A future shared and outshining a shattered past, no matter how enticing its glittering shards.