I wake to a knife

    on the back of my neck，

    a man's voice low

    in my ear. What I am told to do，

    I do. Still

    the moon lights my room.

    The freight¹ of his chest

    fixes me to the rough， wood floor.

    His breath

    brags² down my throat

    into my lungs， and I pray

    for my soul.

    I make of my body a bunker：

    when he enters，

    he does not touch me.

    I am clean as rain.