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What does one do when she is defiled of,
True love that once pumped life to her heart,
When she—touched her daughters,
That left finger prints of happiness, joy and contentment.
What does one do when she is imprisoned,
Taken to inactive gymnasium in the,
Now alleged Republic of Gilead—
Where she is striped of humanity, and freedom,
And now clothed with red—solely symbolizing death.
Or maybe fire. The fire she has within her,
To once again outline the peculiar lineament,
Of her daughters finger prints on her –
Or possibly just embrace a meager hug of affection,
Where she can press her breast against her husband’s chest,
And listen to his heart beat.
What does one do when she is physically positioned between,
Another women’s limbs and is acquiring the abhorrent injection of,
Another mans gentile between her inner thighs—while her skin is being pierced,
By that same mans wives—
As is she was enduring the unbearable pain and torment.
One has no choice but to secrete her affliction,
Within the figuration of her—
In hope that she will be given the chance to touch another innocent soul,
In hope that perhaps she savagely engraves her anguish,
Upon that souls life so that tangibly,
They can be the voice she was wrongfully raped of.
My soul was touched by her, Finger tips—
And it is through my, Finger tips—
Her voice is heard.
In respect of “Offred” in the novel The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood.