My whiteness
catches the early rays.
A few men gather
to appreciate
my nakedness-
most are too busy.

Eighteen years’ girlhood
now displayed,
like this, for passers-by.

I could have got away
down this same road,
Ostia, freedom …

No. A girl alone
wouldn’t stand a chance –
and, anyway,
it’s what I asked for.

So I got ready,
bathed, oiled my skin,
brushed back my hair,
put on my dancing chiton,
simple, light,
sandals, hair-ribbon,
nothing else –
no make-up, gems.
Waited.



“Nice legs!” a soldier said
as he tied my wrists,
“But they need a tan –
we’ll see you get one!”



Those legs I fight to flex now,
lit by the light of dawn,
press down - the pain’s unbearable –
to ease the other agonies
in aching shoulders,
steel-tormented groin …

I teased my torturers,
“Come on!
In your job
you must’ve seen a naked girl before -
whip me!”



Their scourge
and smouldering irons have left
imperial signatures
on my hot, heaving adolescent breasts,
where flies are swarming now
to taste sweet sweat.



The sun lifts, angry red
above the marshes –
how soon my pale skin burns!

Heavy the cross-bar
that I had to haul
up this long hill,
thrashed when I stumbled.

Still, when they stripped me –
what I had left of blood-soaked rags –
I smiled, shook back my hair,
self-conscious, girly.

Nor did I struggle –
well, not much –
as they set me shuddering on the shaft,
stretched out slim arms –
so slim, so stretched now,
straining, they’re forced to bear
my body’s weight –

They strapped me down,
showed me the iron nails,
the heavy hammer,
grinning …



Ah! How we squeal,
vixens on heat, fillies in season,
girls, when we’re crucified!



Minutes, they watched me writhe,
peed on me – my lank locks
still stink of it –

then raised me slowly,
every muscle taut,
feeling the strain grow, inch by inch,
head back, lips wide, teeth clenched,
then –



Aaah!
That sickening jolt!
All of me tugged
on four flesh-rending nails,
ripping racked girlhood!

Worse: in between my thighs
the Spike, the Cornu -
that special cruelty the Romans use
to consummate their virgin-victim's
honeymoon of pain!

First I fought, frenzied,
trying to tear,
my fingers free from those fixed nails.

At last,
I recognised, resigned:
there’s no escape.

Accept
the agony
that surges through
with every lunge
of my long, slow death-dance.

Yet still I strive with aching thighs
to ease my tortured sex
around the exploring Spike,
flex up my supple body,
feel how close
ecstatic pleasure lies to exquisite pain!

Excited schoolboys now observe
each throb of my loins
as the triumphant metal penetrates my female parts,
province by province,
conquering me.

Tribute trickles purple
down my surrendered thighs,
drips for Rome’s soil to sup.

Wolf-whistles!
Word's got round,
"A pretty crucifixa on the Ostian Way!"
Youths jeer and joke,
their girl-friends giggle and gloat.
Older men ogle me, lay bets...

"She's suffering,
that slave-slut -
so she should!"
hisses a hag.

Submit.
It's what they like to see....
Breasts that will never nourish,
hips that will never bear,
toss, thrust, tormented.



Parched lips panting,
schoolgirl teeth flash in the sun,
sun-baked, thirst-maddened,
frantic, I twist my head,
try to suck sweat off my shoulder.

Oozing wounds crawl
with flesh-gnawing flies -
each breath is agony …

Ah, crucifixion!
Summit of sadist’s skill!
Making me, every sinew taut,
torture – and fuck - myself!

Noonday.
No rest.
Head hangs exhausted.



Crows investigate –
I toss my tousled curls:
not time yet boys!
“Caw!”
They just mock me.
Soon they’ll start pecking -
first my soft eyes …

And yet I know
it’s only the beginning...
I’ve seen girls young as me –
one was no more than twelve –
hanging like I am now,
still twitching, gasping,
whimpering in pain,
on the third day!