Split the skull and watch the awe
fully formed and ruling over more
than his lustful heart thought it had
devoured
That oracle.
That prophet.
female form and born of nothing more
than the mother of every other chaos
to come after
That storm.
That body.
A warrior
built by the hands of her own blood
in the mind of a god feared above
every other anonymous verse
forgotten to an impossible world
I hear the laughter of her hammer
ringing deep and drawn into the dawn again
I sense the beat of all her bruised and broken
bones beneath these ancient streets

We walk along their battle scars.

pock marked paths buried and dark
lighting the sea beneath my soul, my feet
where I see and sprint to stand and swim
in the power of all her passion previous and
presently alive in the fire of the eyes of she
who holds my heart
in her hands.
I hear
the rising of her words
in the rhythm of your own
stories tucking themselves
between the covers of a shared history
etched across this bare body
staring back at me from the mirror
a doubled down sigh of reflection
searing itself on repeat
awareness
we stand at the forge of our future
a gathering storm
subverting the spaces history
has stitched upon our skin
this out loud
ripping threads off our lipstick red
restless surging beneath the chains
of yesterday’s careful
conditioning.

We are one
But we inhabit all
Who have gone before us.

Kendall Kirkwood

 

Kendall Kirkwood is a feminist / poet / photographer / woman. She likes to use words to build bridges, mostly between the past and our present experiences. Though sometimes her bridges end up building their own direction. Unexpected ambiguous adventures. She is fine with this too.

© 2018