Of Virgins And Grapes

I was a virgin, in another life.

Now I am a grape.

Luscious, juicy, intoxicating.

Seventy-two of us are waiting for

For each pious son of god who fights god’s war.

No one really knows

What god whispered in the ears of

God’s favourite sons, a millennium (possibly)

And a half (maybe)

Ago, about wars or virgins or grapes.

But they fight anyway.

It goes without saying, I have no say,

In any part of the story, yea or nay,

Whatsoever.

So, no matter what I am - a virgin

Or a grape - I will be bitten, crushed

Between teeth, (all sixteen pairs), and tongues,

Sucked dry and spat out into the garbage bin.

And that, my friends, is a universal truth.

Of course, it means nothing -

My skin ripped off.

My guts and womb, stamped underfoot, pulverized.

My eyes, ears, nose, and mouth, clawed into ribbons.

My soft, swelling breasts, their pointed peaks, mauled.

My voice box was shredded, and

My body fluids are forced out into rivers.

The man knows the secret of turning

My blood into wine.

In heaven, hours even, I think, feel pain.