The Honey Pot

Amina soaps up her breasts, her thighs and her derriere
Amina squats and washes her honey pot
it doesn’t produce much honey these days

Amina washes the suds from her hair and skin
She has used the expensive rose-scented bath oil
that Fiifi gave to her on her birthday
He likes it
Amina dries herself off
Amina moves sluggishly, trudges on to the room
Amina slathers something coconutty onto her breasts
her stomach, her thighs, her feet…
Now Amina must wait…

Fiifi loves his wife, but she will not conceive
He needs his male child, little Bella is not enough
a man-child will marry her and his name will be lost
But Amina will not get pregnant

Fiifi shoves his man-stick into her honey pot
and thrusts and wiggles and thrusts
Amina cannot feel the movement
She cannot feel the blood slithering down her chunky thighs
Now, she’s dead down there

Amina used to scream, but no one came
Amina used to fight, but Fiifi would only shove and thrust
shove and thrust harder
He didn’t care that her honey pot no longer secreted honey
He was oblivious to the thick,
red blotches of viscous blood-honey that replaced the honey

Amina soaps up her breasts, her thighs and her derriere
Amina squats and washes her honey pot
which only produces blood-honey these days

Amina washes the shame and pain from her skin
and Fiifi’s sticky spittle from her mane
Then she trudges on to the room to lay by his side
praying that tonight, at 2.00am
she is already with male child
or at least some baby, who will be the Saviour
to end a Madonna’s mortal misery

 
Link to the Italian translation

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