Dorata Dio the men around the corner called her.
They all gave her different names. Hers was one to deform and derange.
In her absence, her body became the object of pottery.
In their fantasies and acting hands.
Minodo went to school listening to girls starting their contributions with an
‘I don’t know, but’.
Dora D. had never been intimidated by the intellect of vile men.
Nisi always spoke out loud when she was certain that she had something to say.
Boys learned from their fathers.
Dorata Dio was never listened to, talked over.
The boys’ patience started at the ending of a phrase.
Deconstructing her face, wide open to what they have to offer.
In the shows of interchangeability, Nisi took herself out of the equation.
The betrayal of her own sex is the hardest to swallow, to get over.
Its cuts the deepest, women do dig and know where to land the punch.
Avid listeners, decisive observers, they know how to bring down their own kind.
Dora D.’s words ended in a wishing well.
Numbed by moaning echoes of the manufacturing boys, sprinkling.
Dorata Dio’s body, against all gossip, is one of denial.
Amongst a horde of wounded egos, Minodo engages her elbows and lowered eyes.
Minodo carries her books across the street and plays the game of signals.
But the spectators see what they wish to see.
It is not hair that needs to be cut off, nor is it her smell, her clothing.
It circulates the public forums and never makes it to a classroom.
Even teachers exhibit it in their minds, she can feel it on her skin.
That’s where the ideas land.
It’s not her.
They will massacre her name until nothing remains and the bottom of the well is empty.
Croque-Melpomene 