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