“Is it not too late to fathom the blood that must be cleaned from a woman’s hands, during when she tends those wounds beneath her? And, is it not too late to comprehend what the first wound was a woman tended, that was beneath her? Her loss of virginity, that was the wound, the anticipated loss of something that made her a woman. She reached down, upon that memorable day, and drew her hand back to see blood. Upon other days, she reaches down for other wounds, for other places without love, and draws her hands back to see blood. She saw wounds, saw the tide leak from them, and saw a swarm of flies surround them to breathe in the stench.
And finally, is it not too late for a man to once more, find it in his mind to clean the blood from a woman’s hands? He had taken her into the state of a woman, not for being a destroyer to flesh, marking him the rapist, though to be the lover, the devoted lover, and the devoted lover who does not deny what he’s done.”