Who is a woman when she doesn’t bleed,
When the dew dries, evaporates,
No longer the long slow lingering flow
Of those heady nectars?
She goes unpaired at morning’s settling
Of the feet on the floor, ground’s first touch.
Morning has broken her night’s prayer,
A lion’s sleep with dreams requested
And yes, she did dream of Baron,
Poor murdered pup, haunting her last night.
And today there’s no pairing to be seen
Because, Who is a woman when she doesn’t bleed?
She hails from a place of power, a yellow foundation.
Her Ratnasambhava, gleaming in the yellow south,
Treasures that sacred nectar, the dewy mist that,
Departing, fades a woman, dissipates nubile flesh
And starts the lunar rounds all over again.
Yet she is left behind, reckoning, reckoning.
Coughing in a smokescreen, bubbled in isolation.
What will her life do now? she asks.
Talk to her, Benjamin, talk. Speak from
The bardo of Lost Babes and tell her
What it all means that she let you go,
Haunt her in chants of forgiveness because
You’re at the core of all this mourning.
Tell her who this woman is when she doesn’t bleed.
She knows blissful union will be hers when the fruit
Drops from the tree in the blink of an eye
And rises up to return when she looks back again.
Union will be hers when she can shapeshift to tiger form,
Crawl in the charnel grounds search
For corpse meat and eat it, and heave it,
And eat it again . . . that’s when she’ll be ready.
She has given her blood for thirty-seven years,
More than enough to bless as many children,
The sheer fabric of the caul . . . wasted all
But for one magnificent son.
Who is a woman when doesn’t bleed?
She is penniless, eggless, wrathful and pure.
She has the key to her soul’s mate, the long ache
Of waiting daily crushing her tender heart,
Only to urge her tiger forth, Yamantaka-fierce
And blue in the moonlight to plod and creep
in searching rounds of the charnel grounds.