I am not a Catholic.
I would like to see the crucified body of a woman.
Symbolically. A man but also a woman.
Both killed by high-handedness in the name of Love.
They called her Bizzarra. She was in her sixties. Or maybe younger.
Born without skin, without protection.
I used to see her walking on the streets of the village.
A faded fur coat two eyes as black as holes.
Big breasts squeezed in worn-out bodices, dyed hair. Red. Uncombed.
No warranty. No Hail Mary in that tired body.
The lusty men of the neighborhood used to provoke her.
“Come here. Come on. Touch here. Look at this”. She used to laugh.
Turning back her head and laughing.
She used to wear flashy clothes.
She used to walk slowly swinging her hips to be noticed. She loved to be loved.
Pleasure let her unfaithful flesh devour her slowly.
She used to feel the winter, even during summer.
The voices of passers-by on the streets used to strike her like whips, but, as far as I remember her, she laughed.
She let the first sun kiss her along the river channel.
Her big breasts were bare, following the last trend. Her eyes were closed.
Female airs and a sky to devour.
One day the sun was the only witness.
Four men approached her. The usual four of the village. Those with the powerful cars. Tight jeans and the look of somebody who can do anything.
In turn one after the other, without respite. They penetrated her.
Every pore, every small cell of her was open. Bleeding.
She was shivering, for sure.
She was screaming, for sure.
Her body was invaded, penetrated, trampled on, touched by another human being.
She was breathing. Yes, she was breathing.
She was accompanied to the hospital.
A few days went by.
She returned home.
She brought her body home.
But everything in that house must have seemed far distant.
One morning she woke up at dawn and put on her most beautiful clothes.
It was summer but I believe she was feeling cold.
She went back to the canal.
I don’t know what her last thought was, but I am sure it dealt with Love.