To Dust Returne
Content warning: mentions of sexual violence and death.
Prologue
A poem that deliberates on trauma, pain, and stagnation: ‘to dust returne’ is a desolate epitaph for the voiceless, haunted by a future destined to repeat itself. Drawing on images of Eden, violence and time are hopelessly interlaced, introducing a premature grief for those who are yet to suffer. The body becomes a stage on which ferocity is performed, and once enacted is immortalised, memorialised, ‘carved into stone’ - just as unmoving as the aftermath of eternity that refuses to change. As corpses are consumed by the earth, their legacies are consumed by those they leave behind, remembered in dark alleyways and cold courtrooms. This poem seeks to interrogate a culture of violation and the ways in which intimate partner abuse and fatality are perpetuated - whilst accounts are heralded as cautionary tales, instructions that wise women must learn. An endless ‘butchery’ of victims is akin to a powerless line of descendants, crucified for the sins of another.
to dust returne
rewind to the birth. a plea. desecrate me,
baby, sway me, serpentine satan,
taste sweet sinful hierarchy, a slow cyanide.
lover/executioner drives me out in desire
until my insides out on film exposures
indite him, indict him, in verse, in pain
he holds the knife to my neck, ripe for the slaughter,
a harvest that would make a village proud.
I rot at the end of his garden path,
cradling successors that inherit their crucifixions
and the car keeps driving its hard
mechanical hands all over our hateful bodies
time hitches like a broken vinyl. my unborn daughters
bloom, becoming defiled roadkill, soft sacrificial lambs
the future embraces me erases me carves me into stone
watching the pillow of a girl’s cheek sit sliced like sunday roast
spreading the legs of brutality across state borders
the mother of original sin births eternal butchery
their names melt on the tongue, in a slurry of hoary snow
landfill of tomorrow’s corpses whispers to me,
recites my violation, an invocation, in courtrooms and alleyways,
forgotten by Fathers permitting Man’s vicious revelry
I reach forward with claws stained by blood-red soil
into years I did not have the mercy of knowing, and clutch
fruitless, at the fresh meat closed casket fate
wired into the prefrontal cortex of Woman
a destiny as relentless as Time.
This poem was performed at Strand Magazine x King’s Poetry Society’s ‘Spooky Open Mic Night’ on the 25th October 2024.
Edited by Roxy-Moon Dahal Hodson
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