The rain has come again,
throwing itself passionately from the sky,
making wild, violent love with the wind.
Is there such thing as violent love?
Or it is a paradox, like the ‘foreseeable past’?
Well, whether it’s love or lust,
possession, power, dominion, desire,
or delicate devastation,
I think of you lover.
I think of your helpless, clumsy curses,
dashed against my choices,
in place of kisses,
or well wishes.
I think of your endless tunnels
of spiraling energy, pulsing through me,
raining into a chemical eternity
The door rattles against the wind,
and I think of how you hit me,
with the same lustful, wistful energy,
and how I accommodated you,
like the sea accepts the rain.
I think of you lover,
and wonder what it is inside me:
a genetic impression, a haunted inheritance,
a constellation, pluto in the seventh house,
the deep, dark, sleepy, bottomless cavern
of simultaneous past and future,
that makes me love you,
all the more for your intensity,
and the ambiguous way that you
pound against me
with your elemental ravishment
and passionate disregard.
They call you Krishna,
but you are also Shiva,
and just as I am rain,
I am wind, waves, fire, flesh,
and the sound of fear.
Even when your arm
is locked against my throat,
you palm quick against my cheek,
and my face is red as I struggle to breath;
especially then lover,
I know there is a power in me,
that you can never equal,
conquer or bridle.
There is no rival for my feminine rage.
I can break your heart.