Circles of Water by Marge Piercy

There is no difference between being raped
and being pushed down a flight of cement,
except that the wound also bleed inside.

There is no difference between being raped
and being run over by a truck
except that afterward, mean ask if you enjoyed it.

There is no difference between being raped
and being bit on the ankle by a rattle snake
except that people ask you if your skirt was short
and why you were out alone anyhow.

There is no difference between being raped
and going headfirst through a windshield
except that afterward, you are afraid,
not of cars,
but half the human race.

The rapist is your boyfriends brother
He sits beside you in the movies eating popcorn
Rape fattens on the fantasies of the normal male
like maggot in garbage.

Fear of rape is a cold wind blowing
all the time on a woman's hunched back.
Never to stoll alone on a sand road through pine woods,
never to climb a trail across a bald
without that aluminum in the mouth
when I see a man climb toward me.

Never to open the door to a knock
without the razor just grazing the throat .
The fear of the dark side of hedges,
the back seat of the car, the empty house
rattling keys like a snake's warning.
The fear of a smiling man
in whose pocket is a knife.
The fear of a serious man
in whose fist is a locked hatred.

All it takes to cast a rapist is seeing your body
as jackhammer, as blowtorch, as adding-machine-gun.
All it takes is hating that body,
your own, your self, your muscle that softens to flab.

All it takes is to push what you hate
what you fear onto the soft alien flesh.
To bucket out invincible as a tank
armored with treads without senses
to possess and punish in one act
to rip up pleasure, to murder those who dare
live in the leafy flesh open to love.