I heard a story of a woman who was pinned face down on the floor
By a gang of six or more as others looked on
They pulled and tore at the flimsy nightgown she wore
Hoisted it far up above her waist
Her wounded cries for help merely hastening the attack
Hands grasped and grabbed, weighted heavy upon her back
Until she couldn’t catch her breath, attempts to move met with grip firmer yet
As she felt something rip the skin of bare buttock
Liquid emptied in
Loosened grip
As she shut up
As she went limp.
My friend said she knows the woman who was pinned face down on the floor
That’s deplorable I exclaimed
Surely that’s a tale of lore; or of a time so long ago
‘Is the woman okay, was anybody charged,
I know justice is slow, but if it happened on the street
Or in any public place?’
She looks at her feet, says ‘it’s much worse than that’
Says, ‘it happened in the hospital,
In fact, the place she should be safe,
The place she should be nurtured
Helped to feel and heal, reshape. But now the place that’s meant to help
Another place she must escape.’
I got talking to the woman who was pinned face down on the floor
Surely you complained? Surely there was uproar?
An outpouring of support, debriefs and apologies
Surely someone took responsibility surely someone was on their knees.
No she replied they kept me drugged for days
I could barely dress or stand, everything was a haze.
I plotted an escape, went to the guards to ask for help
He said, ‘I disagree myself, but there’s little I can do
They’ve it all tied into policy, it’s internal complaints for you.’
Said he wouldn’t hold his breath, for success or any joy. I said, ‘I have to try’.
But the might of the establishment was so much bigger than my voice;
I had to put up and shut up there was no other choice
I am the woman who was pinned face down on the floor.