Hamor

Genesis 34.1-31

What violence to you, Shechem, in your own bed,
slaughtered and tricked, the blood still running
fresh between your legs.
A bride price indeed, worth a nation of men,
was she not, the dark eyed Dinah,
who you fell upon in the fields beside a well.
Corpses lay across one another entwined,
contorted and screaming, the blood still running
fresh between their legs, still running
even after death in
growing pools that the rain beat back to
the dust.
My shame, to my shame a genocide
for a woman raped, a woman seized by
harpy fingers, jewels thick on the knuckles
that bit into her skin and welted red as she
wept home in ripped dress, blood running down her
leg, scratched by brambles, by thorns,
dirtied and stinking from violation.
Though Jacob shook, heads bowed,
the old yield to the young, as this is no country
for old men. Jacob slept and dreamed
of his new cattle, his new people
and the land shared between them.
While he slept, swords in hand,
Jacob's sons took your life as a bride price,
and took your sheep, took your wives,
took your children.
Dinah wrapped in bridal gold, led from
the bridal chamber
stepped on the violets that grew.