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EDITOR'S NOTE
In June 2001 Christopher K. McCarthy, 22, of Concord, New Hampshire, US soldier stationed in South Korea was convicted of killing Kim Song-hui, 32 and sentenced to eight years in prison. He paid about $100 with a credit card for sex with the woman, she refused.
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I want to know how that feels
rampant power, blind entitlement,
all wrapped up in six
starred and striped
inches of bludgeoning penis.
Korean waitress equals
receptacle for GI sperm,
sewer for American relief,
what made her think
she could choose?
She said no
so I hit her
I hit her again
and she fell so I kicked her
I kicked her again
and I want to know how that feels:
rage rises
fist in groin,
torpedoes belly,
pythons intestines,
sprouts two wings
like god’s own angels,
thunders bullets
through hands and feet.
I want to know what it takes
to beat a woman to death.
Did she count her savings that day?
Promise her son: tomorrow
if I catch enough tips, tomorrow
we’ll buy your schoolclothes,
and yes, maybe this summer
we’ll go see your grandparents
in the village……
Duh. I forgot
she’s nameless,
faceless, voiceless.
Breasts, hips, vagina.
Slick black hair and
slick red mouth
and open legs and – hang on:
she refused
to have sex with him?
She
refused?
Did the earth stop turning?
Did the sun go out?
Did the stars and stripes
freeze on the flagpole,
shatter in the darkness?
She was a gook!
You know the plot - why
do I have to repeat it?
He has a name.
She has none.
He has a rank, a gun,
family, church, hometown,
high-school girlfriend,
He’s the hero!
She’s a walk-on.
So he had to kill her.
What else could he do?
She was changing the story.
I want to know how it feels,
when the story is you: roots
in your groin, flowers
up your belly, tendrils
your intestines, blossoms
two wings like
god’s holy angels,
testifies righteous bullets
through hands and feet.
Bring in the scales:
Six years for McCarthy,
Thirty one years of her life.
Wait! I’ll put more on her scale:
the dream she had last night,
the ache in her feet from high heels,
strip of blue silk at her window,
history books by her bed,
incense she burns daily
for her grandmother, stitches
her mother had
after her birth -
the scale says: Sorry.
She was only a bar girl
who didn’t know her lines.
I want to know how it feels, McCarthy,
when the story falls apart,
the slick red mouth
says no,
the faceless
grow eyes
that stare into yours.
Does it explode your groin,
slice a bayonet
up your belly,
strangle your intestines,
spawn two monstrous wings
like god’s avenging angels,
shrapnel KILL
through hands and feet?
Because the story
must be restored, the story
cannot be changed, the story
is about
you.
And how did she imagine,
Asian bar girl, yellow void,
where did she get the idea
she could say no?
Copyright Shailja Patel, 2001 | |  | FLAG THIS STORY FOR REVIEW | | | |
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