o f m y breast, a hole opens up as if the Red Sea were splitting
apart but in a second, half a second, it wasn’t there and then
suddenly it is there, and I know because I feel the blood
running down my breast, there’s a deep hole in my breast, no
infection, it never gets infected, no pus, no blood poisoning
ever, no cyst, completely clean, a hole down into the breast,
you see the layers o f skin and fat inside, and blood pours out,
clean blood, just comes out, it hurts when the hole comes, a
clean hurt, a simple, transparent pain, the skin splitting fast
and clean, opening up, and I’m not in any danger at all though
it takes me some years to realize this, it’s completely normal,
completely normal for me, I am sitting there talking and
suddenly the skin on a breast has opened up and there is a deep,
clean hole in m y breast and blood is pouring down m y chest
and I’m fine, just fine, and the hole will stay some days and the
blood will come and go. T h ey’re m y stigmata. I know it but I
can’t tell anyone. They come from where the burns were, the
skin bursts open and the blood washes me clean, it heals me,
the skin closes up new, bathed in the blood: clean. Because I
suffered enough. Even God knows it so He sent the sign. I’ve
seen all the movies about stigmata and it’s just like in the.
movies when someone explains what real stigmata is so we
can tell it from a trick; it’s real stigmata on me; it’s God saying
He went too far. He loves me. It’s Him saying I’m the best
time He ever had. They asked in the camps, they asked where
is God; but they didn’t answer: omnipotent, omniscient,
omnipresent, H e’s right here, having a good time. When you
get married, it’s you, the man, and God, ju st like is always
said. God was there. The film unrolled. The live sex show
took place. I’m filthy all over. The worst thing was I’d just
crawl into bed and wait for him to fuck me and he’d fuck me. I
couldn’t barely breathe. His long hair’d be all over me in m y
face, in m y eyes, in m y nose, in m y mouth, and it was so hot I
couldn’t breathe so I went to a barber and I got m y hair cut off,
almost shaved like at Dachau so I’d be able to breathe, so m y
hair w ouldn’t m ix with his, so there’d be less hair, I got
dressed, I found some change, I was scared, I didn’t know
what would happen to me, I told the man to take all m y hair
off, keep cutting, keep cutting, shorter, less, keep cutting,
shave it shorter, I just couldn’t stand all the hair in m y face; but
it didn’t get no cooler and I’d lie still, perfectly still, on m y
back, m y eyes open, and he’d fuck me. He didn’t need no
rope. Y ou understand— he didn’t need no rope. Y ou understand the dishonor in that— he didn’t need no rope and God just watched and it was your standard issue porn, just another
stag film with a man fucking a woman too stupid or too near
dead to be somewhere else; a little ripe, a little bruised; eyes
glazed over, open but empty; I would just lie there for him and
he didn’t need no rope. We was married. I don’t think rape
