Poetry
I HATE LOVE
by Di Brandt
It just hurts like hell and
where does it ever get you
watching the heart open
against wishing against
the old wound's wisdom
again again the prairies
folding your desire
like postage stamps licked
and sent the air full of
messages contrary to logic
contrary to the space that
exists between us that's
what you said you're too
far away and me not remembering
the geography the days of
the week not remembering
distances only the light
falling slanted and radiant
around you in the kitchen
your arms strong and tender
in spite of the words said
and not said in an afternoon
where does it ever get you
BENDS
Erin Moure
What the heart is is not enough.
That I can open it and
let you enter
an ocean so dense
you'll get the bends if you surface.
That you will be open to the love of every being:
I crave this,
it makes me possible, anarchic, calling
your attention,
your fingers on my ear or soft neck,
the light on each side of your face, altered
as you speak to me
Oh speak to me
I have a friend who says the heart's
a shovel, do you believe this?
My heart is a wild muscle, that's all,
open as the ocean
at the end of the railway,
a cross-country line pulled by four engines
Whatever it is I don't care, it is not enough
unless you see it
unless I can make you
embrace and breathe it, its light that knows you,
unless you cry out in it, and swim
