What A Woman Says to Another Woman

By Kara Trojan,

Anger and Love are two sides of the same blade, same Sword.

Do you brandish your own sword

              in the disfigured, burning-white face of abrasion


              march home with square, taut shoulders – slightly bony –

Body swelled and puffed with

              the blood-red energy of passion, confusion, and hurt?

              These colorless concepts, abstract words

                            that hang in the air the same as


Your Lover came to you,

              and gave you a religion;

a belief that there is some guiding force in the universe —

And he and You quelled

each other’s stabbing pain within the folds of your muscles,

your minds, your heart.

Some spiritualists call this the philosophy of the Kundalini – feel this world

through a material base

              A Love religion – fixing body and body together

because it’s the one thing that seems to make sense in this crude moment

“My God. His chest, his belly,

the riding and the falling, the moans.

How he clung to me, how he struggled —

Life and death! Life and death!”

The circle of arms is the gateway

to some emotional waterfall,

the swelling, purging, and crashing

of grief, rage, love, and comfort

              teetering on the edge of a beaten-down war song

The mirrors seem to be all broken the morning after, don’t they?

              We can give our vegetables a gender:

              Female onions. Peel only when ripe when blood and night are present.

Color sensations that can only pass between illuminated palms on an

              angry evening.

              Shakespeare’s Gloucester could only see this world feelingly, woman.

                            How will you cope after being blinded by his tears?

And when the ream is spent, write a poem on the back.

                            After your limbs searched for each other after years gone,

searched underneath the covers for

a comforting hand that could save the loneliness from shaking your souls out of

your bodies?

              When limbs stretched forward to hold both bodies together,

              the backbones that damned you both pressed against the skin —

                            Yes, the very skin that damned you, too.

That dream baby could be a reminder of not only your Love, but will also bear the

handprint of his death’s legacy. Against undifferentiated dark, it may glow

beneath the cradle’s mobile.

              “Another illegitimate black baby.” Let’s call it Smoke and Mirrors for

maybe just a second.

Don’t pay attention to the swerve of small-town eyes.

              Then, we can see the light through the parenthesis.

Call it the ghost of his Love. The ghost of meat love. Delirious brilliance.

Leave the porch light on if you want him to find his way back.

Love it, leave it, love it, leave it, love it, Woman.

              Now do you know where you are? We see a little farther now, a little

farther still.

              Staked in fury, can we recognize Love, now?

                            Shrouded in a glory-cloud, at least you knew you fit somewhere.

              As Women, We know the Sword well. A little farther now and a little

farther still.

The maddening dances around Sex and Song – it is possible for the rest of Us to


and know how You’ve been bleeding.