2 July, 0125

Young vivacious voices sang in the next room

A church choir rejoiced on TV 

Their singing echoed in my head as if it were hollow

But I laid there 

Frozen 

He was done with me

Shredded my loins 

Beaten

tethered in this web bloodied and swollen

Face down 

Jeans pulled to my waist on his kitchen table 

The hungry pants and gasps for air were

No longer mine 

No longer his

It was that damn pudgy-faced nasty slobbering mastiff of his,

Quasimodo 

He’d witnessed it all

And he looked like he had seen it before 

Yet he cocked his head as if searching for 

the answer to some interstellar riddle

He was still drinking that gin 

As he zipped up his pants 

He raised his glass as if toasting to my health

Walked around the table

Surveying my whimpering carcass 

He stepped aside to let me go

He would not impede me

Be steady 

But be swift 

I can’t let him do this to me again 

Again?

Did it happen at all?

He was bigger than me

Stronger

I did fight, right?

No it didn’t happen

Then why was I bleeding

“Then he will say to those on his left, 

‘Depart from me, you cursed, 

into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels.

Matthew 25:41 

Television still on as I crossed his yard

31 July, 0830  

“You want to report what?” my commander demanded of me 

“You’re talking about your squadron leader.”

“Decorated five times in three tours in the sand.”

“A husband and father of three.”

 ‘Yes sir’ stumbled over my lips each time

“I’m not gonna sugarcoat this for you, 

because you know his story will vary. 

What this will do to him, and do

to you will be a quite scary.”

“Yes sir”

This pangolin faced troll’s only concern was

the clerical nightmare it would bring 

He wanted to dismiss it as some petty matter

That I needed to reform my way of thinking 

Hoping this fad would pass like I was some teenaged girl 

21 August, 1435  

At my court martial 

I could still hear that chorus singing

A brutal homicidal act was what the judge had said

Then my life sentence was summarily read

As the two MPs started to lead me away 

My commander only had one thing to say, 

“Robert, did you have to shoot the dog too?” 

“Yes sir.”

C. Z. Heyward is an emerging poet, playwright, and social critic whose work has appeared in a number of journals including: The Gay and Lesbian Review Worldwide, Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine, and The Sacred Cow. His work has found platforms in the United Kingdom, France and Greece. When he’s not writing, he enjoys live jazz in dark bars and riding his vintage motorcycles. He is also pursuing his PhD in educational leadership at St. John’s University (New York).