Sheath

 

Make your heart a sheath

for what is sharper than God,

what penetrates

the moist and soft.

Clinging to tenderness

is a great weight.

The gashed forsaken animal

in your chest

is not who you are.

Be a razor,

your edgelessness

defined by what is not,

by what has been honed away

through seven silences,

ruthless and black,

in the gorgeous wounds

of your body.

You are a scimitar.

Let the Beloved draw you

out of his own breast

dripping with bliss and wine.

Shiva wants to use you

as a violet lethal incandescence

in the formless combat

of love.