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Midnight's Soul:an Empire's Grandchild # 6

Midnight’s Soul: an Empire’s Grandchild


i have wrenched myself separate from my generations, becoming violently

me; not my grandmother who slept with her husband’s shotgun by her bed

in case the gardener tried to get in during the night, the way he had

the last time he was drunk, nor my angry mother with her sunset scotch.

tea at the maharani’s has become a blast of dynamite and women

floating down rivers, weighted by an embryo of twisted territories. the skies

above the pink mountains sink into the bowl of Incan stones, continents

moving in my wound, empires disassembling and the boy

with the half arm, running outside the car for baksheesh now

throws lopsided grenades into the chenar trees, landing in saqsayhuayman.


i can feel that place in my centre where i cut

myself free, filling with a great exploded wound,

tearing the scar layers into an expanse to be discovered, a territory

of light and dark, of sex into the ether and bodies;


that refract and reflect each other’s skin and membranes, the cells

themselves changing shape.

not the bodies of death on a forensic farm, bleeding

in a black and white photograph but a dark brown body on a grey landscape, crawling

again and again towards love

in the low embers on the horizon


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Taken on August 12, 2011