Deliver Me From The Hands of Strange Children

By Octavia McBride-Ahebee

On the Day of the Dead,
On the day we plead on their behalf,
he naked me,
stripped my body of its deluded sense of sovereignty
in front of carved saints, elegantly stoic
cloistered in their own uselessness

he naked me
in front of bands of soldier boys, spellbound and spoiled,
wearing their sisters’ dresses and their mothers’ wigs
their necks encased in feather boas and forest paint
their waists jeweled with the feces of cold war arsenals

he naked me
in a church garden wild with perfume
under a bush plum tree
the kind we make our Christmas pudding from

he naked me
as I quietly pleaded to the holy queen
as he told me her ears were stuffed with cassava leaves
and her son’s many failures
as he pissed his discontent in my face

he laid me beneath a neighboring mango tree
magnificent in its promise to shield
and he used a bayonet like a crochet hook
pushing through my vagina
in search of hidden bounty
in search of buried cell phones and soiled cash
pulling from its walls only prayer beads
christened by frightened menses

for such a gross disappointment
he placed mary’s head
machete-sharpened and faceless
in there instead