She came from a broken family
Which had nothing to eat
As an early age she discovered
She could offer her body for bread

Shame dominated her existence
As day after day she prostituted herself
Being good in her profession
She earned a reputation

One day she saw a Stranger
And she could not help but wonder
The Man had a way with people
And spoke words like salve to the soul

Several days had past
Yet He was all she could think about
She knew the Man had awakened something
Could it be Love?

When she heard that the Teacher was invited to a Pharisee’s house
She decided she would go just to see the Teacher
In her clothing she tucked an alabaster box
Then went quickly to the Pharisee’s house

There she witnessed how the Pharisee showed no respect
The Teacher received nothing upon entering the house
Neither handshake nor kiss, nor basin of water to clean the feet
Not even an oil to refresh His head

His humiliation so reminiscent of her own
The ******* could not help but throw herself to Him
There she began to kiss His feet
Washed it with her tears and wiped it with her hair

Soon the woman reached into her garment
From it revealed the alabaster box
From this box she pulled a flask of expensive perfume
And poured the fragrant oil on the feet of Jesus

Her perfume, her primary form of advertisement and shame, was now gone
Compelled by the Love she had never known until the present moment
She gave up the primary means of her occupation
The aroma once meant to allure now become an aroma of worship

oh chantal
poor, sweet chantal
tell me about what happened
last night
when another knobby hand
caressed your thigh -
gripped it, almost- -
the pain you felt as he pressed
himself to you
the disgust you spat as he shoved
his tongue to your neck
oh innocent chantal,
tell me about the malicious
gleam in his eyes
his sickening smile that reeked
of smoke and alcohol
and lust for flesh
tell me about how your innocence
was robbed yet again
tell me about the salty tears
you tasted
as he tasted the pleasure
he paid for

oh chantal
poor, sweet chantal
did you know what happened
the day you were born?
let me tell you about how
your mother smiled in tears
as she carried you
in her arms
caressed your face softly as
if afraid to even cause you
pain
and she promised, chantal,
she promised,
you'll never walk the same spiky
road she once crossed
let me tell you about your father,
oh lovely chantal,
he kissed your forehead
and held your small hand
whispered his promise,
his promise, chantal,
that no one's going to hurt you
let me tell you about how they
called you an angel from above
and how they promised that
they will nourish you
with their love

oh chantal
poor, sweet chantal
let me tell you about their sacrifices
the days they searched cities
to find a decent work
the nights they spent working
hard to the bone
let me tell you about their
hardships
just to assure your happiness
your education
just to assure you grow out
of love and goodness
just to assure you won't be
a victim like them
a victim of this cruel world

oh chantal
poor, sweet chantal
tell me how you ended up in hell
tell me how an angel like you
ended up in this kind
of place
you scream for help
no, you didn't scream because
of pleasure
but he misunderstood and
continued to ruin every essence
of your being
you scream
you scream
you scream and cry
but you're just a weak, young girl
in a large swarm of men
and you can't do anything
because you're just a girl
and the day you were proclaimed
as one
you are doomed to suffer
oh poor chantal,
your muffled cries won't be heard
amidst the loud chants of men

i know you never asked for it
i know you said no
but all you received is a yell
and a hard slap
yet your mother never even
shouted at you
your father never even
slapped you
and i know you want to ask
what did you even do to
experience such things
if you even deserve all
of these
but still you shut your mouth
and wiped your tears
as he left you broken
in that cheap rundown motel
with a bundle of money
in the nightstand
oh chantal
all you can do is hush,
fix yourself and take your money
then return to that
suffocating bar

oh chantal
poor, sweet chantal
tell me how you ended up in hell
tell me how an angel like you
ended up in this kind
of place

Spent the evening walking nowhere streets
dodging horns and sirens of hungry motorbike taxis.
It was a parade of street-food vendors,
security guards half asleep by bottles of whiskey.
Every woman I passed was beautiful,
laid their *** on the numbered tables
as off-hand as their mobile phone, their purse;
their bored men. Each one had their toenails painted,
wore short skirts and vest tops in the stifling heat.
The best of them wore tight dresses of black or red
and ate their food in the same studious manner
I imagined they would take to the zip of my jeans.

Could feel the sweat roll down my back
kicking gravel out my sandals every ten strides.
The playboys rev their motorbikes
as if it were a talent they had been working on,
a kind of siren song to tempt the free women.
Each one is on the lookout for a bargain.
Each one streaks past to some indiscernible point
where they will bury themselves amongst
the massage parlours, karaoke bars, and short-stay hotels;
Each one a straight-up brothel once you make it through the doors.
I feel too awkward in this ******* town to order a sandwich
let alone try out my second language to ask for a cheap *******.

Every foreigner here had some kind of breakdown.
Some kind of complex that drew them like a moth to flame
to some place where white skin is enough to feign riches,
stimulate desire and place you amongst better men.
We steal a living for a year or two of forever blue skies.
We eat good food and toast ourselves every evening
with cold lager and palm leaf cigarettes.
We cannot read a word in these humid streets
where every single building holds a portrait of the King.
Spent the evening with my shadow, both alive in the night
beneath the heady aroma of cooking oil and street-food spice,
both hurting to become, both slipping out of sight.

In the back of cars, in the restroom stalls
human nature draws contracts
with give and take as the norm
some for pleasure, some want control

the bond is there for the cash
where some connect for no bucks
transaction is the alternative
this for that, then separate

they say joy is had by all
this is far from the mark
survival is the claim of one
while the other seeks to control

power stems from the wallet
differential in power’s game
don’t forget the mastery
it’s held by the one who pays

in its wake the die is cast
contracts bleeding the two souls
leaving something there to die
in back of cars, in restroom stalls.

© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170424.