Every man you seek will wear his face,
the horseman who held a loaded rifle at
your back, whose black shirt kept you in your place,
who nailed you up in a stalag where you sat.
He used his sex like a weapon to keep you down;
his money was a promise that he never kept.
You lived in the random darkness of his frown
and counted the other women with whom he slept.
You matched his will with a secret ferocity
and wished him dead but learned to bide your time,
became yourself as ruthless, but in this victory
murdered love and, murdering, loved your crime.
The husband that you buried is still alive
and has buried you although you still survive.