Yielding

She pushes; I want her to push,
and I squeeze my eyes shut--
no, I relax my forehead--
and I think in my head (not my heart),
Yield, yield, yield.

Her hands, the hands of a stranger,
but my face is hidden where no one can see,
and I am safe, very safe, if I can keep quiet,
and I can keep quiet; it hurts but so
does everything.

I accept this pain; it is nothing
I accept this pressure; I yield
--that is, I try to yield but even as I
tell myself to yield I can feel myself
tense, tense like I'm fighting it, and I don't want
to fight it but I fight it.

I know--or I fear I know--
what she'll have to do before my body
will allow her to mold it.
She'll have to break me,
push so hard as I push so hard back
until I can no longer continue,
and I crack and crumble like I did that day
I swore I'd give up fighting

and I don't want to break; it's so
unnecessary
but my body won't stop pushing,
won't yield to her hands,
won't yield to the commands of its own mind,
can't let me be free.