dear Benjamin

Black woman in white in desert


dear Benjamin

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.


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