Lying, blind-folded, face-up, on a table,
Like a salmon on a cutting board
Waiting to be turned into sashimi...
They gather around and hold-down
My legs and arms and head,
Strong young hands
Readying for the shock...
Which comes when the bad actor
Holds a canteen, unseen, above my face
And begins pouring...
The clear water hits between my nose and mouth,
Freely pouring into both,
Choking me perfectly...
My screams are no more than
Spits and sputters and gurgles
And I strain mightily, futilely,
In purest panic and fear
To make it stop...
And then it does...
The questions are asked,
Which I answer quickly and honestly.
But then it begins again...
And I can only hope
The tormentors are good enough
To keep me from drowning.
After a few more minutes -- it is over...
And I feel relieved and shamed,
Tired and angry,
Bereft of hope.
(From my stay at Warner Springs, CA, 1980)
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