Poetry Editor Ira Maine presents “(A)n abject tale of raiments ripped and bodices busted whilst uncaring appetites are slaked, sated. and cruelly satisfied.
God help us all…”

CASTAWAY (ANON)

He grabbed me round my slender neck,
I could not shout or scream,
He carried me into his room
Where we could not be seen;
He tore away my flimsy wrap
And gazed upon my form-
I was so cold and still and damp,
While he was wet and warm.
His feverish mouth he pressed to mine-
I let him have his way-
He drained me of my very self,
I could not say him nay.
He made me what I am. Alas!
That’s why you find me here…
A broken vessel- broken glass-
That once held bottled beer.

 END

[Oh, the pity of it all…]