standing in the empty kitchen

Don’t lie in your bed aching. It’s only an echo you feel, it’s only her shadow from the night before, this blanket of darkness you lie covered in, is only your unformed feeling of a strange kind of love. A love you cannot leave without dying. A love you cannot have without loving back until you’re deeply in death. There is nobody left in the middle of your plea, there is only now and there is only never…

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“Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, ‘The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.”

Pablo Neruda

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I was just standing in the empty kitchen, everyone went to bed but me. I’m still up thinking of all the things I need to do…and then I heard this poem in my head and I wanted to tell you that she is wounded by the stab. I wanted to say something that might stop the violence but I can’t. It’s impossible to see inside of her, impossible to touch the loss. I felt it as a sort of stab at first but I knew I wasn’t alone, you must do this all the time. The same old winter killing, it’s another ice bath, a climax of cold heaving. And so I have taken away my silky hands. I have taken away my dripping mouth. The dying wind shivers all night in the cold that I left you…thinking of me and wondering why…and still you thought you were only catching a passing, random chill. A little love sick you could wash away…but no, not this time. My fever comes and stays with you. What I leave behind doesn’t go away, she blows with a vengeance until you relinquish what you are not. Revenge is a terrible waste of my loving warmth and my burning night hole consumes the one who burns -devouring like a starving savage every morsel of charred, complacent flesh – and so I’ve decided to allow the consummation of fever and contempt because the solvent is the bashing of your desire for me as I’m smashing you against my wall of ice. I didn’t touch a thing. I froze for you-myself-in every position imaginable regardless of any limitations. You sat and probably read a book about shapeshifting, distorted people like me and how I just might take you for everything that you are- or at least make you think that I might -and everyone knows by now that I have nothing much to say -but I keep talking anyway because I’ve got a lot to do…which reminds me of one my ongoing dreamscapes- where there is a willowy headless woman in a sheer white gown that floats always ahead of me down this dark misty road and she’s guiding my because she knows me. I know that she is leading me to the end of the road…once I looked down and she didn’t have any feet. She has no head and no feet. She captivates me like the dull razor you held to my throat- it makes no sense, but because she’s certain of something definitive, and I am not, I keep following her. She knows what can’t be thought of or walked upon- and yet I live counting your steps with sharp weapons in my every hand-wasting her emptiness with endless lesser forms of her- and because she is the anarchy of the disappearing moon, she is the one you cannot live without. She is the branches of the other molten tree. She is the sun melting from the solar flame. So what I’m saying is, go get your release of fantasy somewhere else- because I’ll never free you through those thoughts of her. My inverted shrine does not open to a passing glance like yours. You just want punishment- and that’s why you’re here- you’re here to make amends in real time- to be shackled and beaten in the deepest, darkest dungeon I can conjure up- because her hair is on fire -and it’s scent wakes the wrathful god’s -and this black magic destroys- my white, stinging hell is the writing on that ice wall your tongue is still stuck to from licking my dream- the love dream I’ve been slamming you against while you stutter and stare into the past looking for where I am not- and so this message is just for you- “No free samples.” It’s God’s will after all, not yours. Ice burns and words lock- don’t think I don’t know what I’m doing…underneath the chaos, another storm is brewing…you get what’s coming- step by step- because that’s what echoes do, and she was there, wasn’t she? The poem isn’t all about him and his whims and his loss of her-it’s the oldest story in the book- your selfishness called “Love me, touch me.” So I said, “Ok. This liar wants me to go down fast and hard. So be it.” The truth would have whispered in her ear, “Remember me, my blood is your wine. Remember me, eat my body.” Then I might have believed him. She is the needle of time passing through you- making you count-she is forgiving the unforgiveable. She is pounding you hard just like you always dreamed of -beating the war drum on top of your corpse- The way I describe the perfect drummer is the same way I took down all those sexy pictures of me and then I turned off the red light. The room was only a shadow of sound. The subtle glow of unabashed embers shined from your strange eyes through the hot blackness between us – and like a threat, I can’t resist temptation-because we’re here at last, getting old and about to die anyway…so I did it on purpose, blindfolded and contorted the ailing. So softly, like a feather I move and I thread and I bend and I breath and I come to know the smell of your veil of skin. The skin I will later peel off of your flailing body- to remove the useless cover you cherish -that tries, even after all of this, to keep me out of you. I remember everything while I remember the poem and the whitewash of words in an empty kitchen. Over and over again. Take me down tomorrow to the place we’ll never be.

Sharada Devi

1 thought on “standing in the empty kitchen”

  1. She stands at the throne of the golden toes, she bows her head and the dakinis dance in her long matted hair. The blessings of her mother light heart, the breath of the Lamas echo, you can still hear the voice of the seed sounds of silence rolling around the floor. I give my all and everything as I lie this body down and lift it up again to do her holy work and save the children. We live in the web of his wisdom seed mantra: DHIH -the sword that cuts the thoughts away to BE the sea and hear the Whale lama dance in the ocean floor of never gone and always gone beyond the gone and back again to give birth to the ten thousand things. What we get is what we give and all we have is the tears that flow into the skull cup. The light of her love are her words of grace that your eyes see. Let go……… nothing is yours…… our birth is her glory that lights the stone.
    Mountain mantra mama das

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