The Bondage of Humaliation
I believe it has something to do with that cross,
and the idea that there was a naked man nailed to it.
He couldnt move and she would picture it. His
hands and feet...hammered to the wood as a crowd
gathered to watch the torturing of their brutally
beaten savior.
Something about the wine, repenting, eternal
fires and damnation. And that bit about eating the
flesh and drinking the blood, I know it made her feel
like she thought she shouldnt. And that big crucifix
she clutches with her delicate little white hands.
It quivered from the crushing grip of her tense
sweaty fingers.
I knew she was most content down on her knees...
praying. Sometimes with her crying face so close to
the floor that her tender breasts would lay heavily
on the freezing cold tile.
The hammering in her head would beat louder
and louder. The sound of a metal mallet pounding an
iron stake through flesh and through bone into wood
dissolves into a throbbing drone of painful ecstasy.
At times I hear her cry out. I know that cry. And
the door is locked to her private, praying sanctuary.
I glimpsed her memories one cool April day.
Something about the blood that drooled from the
spiky wounds on his regal forhead, the blood
streaming into his eyes, she wrote.
Those eyes that so benevolently searched the
heavens without the slightest blink to rid them-
selves of the burning thick red streaks that oozed
from the crown of thorns.
Of submission she wrote, To delight in the
bondage of humaliation.
