How many male joggers, out exercising one evening
along a canal towpath, or at the wooded extremity
of a public park, find themselves suddenly confronted
by a ferret-faced female, wielding a switchblade?
How many boyfriends, having kissed their fiancées
goodnight at a garden gate, will walk home alone,
entering an ill-lit underpass only to come face to face
with a sweaty thug of a woman, reeking of beer?
How many inoffensive, lightly clad lads will be set upon
in tower block stair-wells, or awaiting public transport,
by jeering assemblies of belligerent bitches
fighting one another to be first in the gang-bang queue?
How many violated, mutilated masculine corpses
will end up dumped in lay-byes or neglected cemeteries,
hastily sand-covered at a remote golf course bunker
or discovered by dog-walkers in tangled undergrowth?
The war memorial for women has not yet been built.
No cairn nor shrine nor plaque nor cenotaph…
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