by Nick Gisburne
Corrected by the officer in black,
Her bloody fingers take the test again.
Admission to the Resurrection Rack
Demands she must submit, to serve such men.
A second-rate machine could beat her best,
But this is not a measurement of skill.
The ruthless persecution of the test
Performs a purpose: break a woman’s will.
Already dying, swollen with the pox,
Today will be her finish if she fails.
Before the pain, before this brutal box,
They promised life, reborn, if she prevails.
The Rack is one more level of their lies.
The test is endless. Everybody dies.
