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
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
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
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
The maddening dances around Sex and Song – it is possible for the rest of Us to
and know how You’ve been bleeding.