That Ain't No Skipping Stone

She's got some dried blood underneath her fingernails.
Slow, slow, slow paces,
Arid desert heat and a mouthful of sand
Matching bracelets of twine bound,
Held courteously behind her back.
The sun burning down on her bare skin,
Turns even the bruises red.
Softly sobbing, losing more body fluid,
Still while the men take their turns.
She remembers the first song she ever sang and starts to sing it.
Soft, soft, softer,
Even the sand starts feeling like down pillows
And for the first time in twelve years she says to to god: help me.