ISABEL BALÉE

the eroded womb

i.

a bloodshot eye
glares thru smoke
veiling either side
of every border

on the final day

particulate matter
flagellates our lungs,
a vengeful blood-current
moistens my legs
pooling from the center
of the world measured
in lunar time —

i rub my thighs together
until friction brands
a new message
into my tired
excuse for skin:

i worship the dead,
i will never be loved by men

& this is the hidden will of god—

profound sleep
graces my presence

i hold a thousand stars
in my right hand, athene,

every finger
sweet as honey.

ii.

repent
if you cannot tolerate the wicked

i am light

sweet calyx of earth
a woman penetrating
a message
into every last one
of your orifices:

            let them remember

nothing retrogrades
nothing completely ends
it all repeats

so nothing changes:

            the arc reforms
its original shape
to appease whatever
this moment claims
thru its own
uncertainty

            & those who are aroused
by your pain
will never confront
their silence—

            let them remember
the difference
between pain
& discomfort:

            when i lick the flame

i am not alone,
every womxn who hears me
howls a message
in return:

horses will carry our bodies
to the city

every limb will be cut
to the bone

            i promise

X

we collide

telepathically
in the subtext

postponing climax

i grapple your flesh

            (not real life)

revealing what’s under
the surface,

a hole
where my
phone fell in

            (to start loving
            someone who is dying)

you’ve hardened
our mutual stomach

            (you know)

what i mean
i like to suffer
i like to know
you’re watching
me gut the walls
enclosing
our desires
& i want it all
to continue
somewhere
private

the wanderer

when a cosmological rift
appeared above her,
she couldn’t explain
the evidence,

words escape

the atlantic coast
in 1999,
wind inflating her jacket
like a parachute,
she appears blurry
from wind, laughter,
exposure—

aurora parted the sky
in two, she said,
or it passed quickly
before we could withdraw
our sight
from the crashing waves,
predictable as heartbeat,
yet absolutely inhuman,
this indifferent power,

she was the only witness.

her departure not
photographed,

i spent too long
in a warehouse
far from the scene
then threw my phone
off a bridge
later engulfed
by the storm

& awoke in an empty lot
without telling anyone
where i was going
because i didn’t know
where i would land—

that’s one way
to consider loss.

years later, biking home
in california,
i thought to text her a picture
of wildflowers speckling
every conceivable inch
of grass
after a season of rain,
or the temple uphill
from my house,
5 artificial gold-lit spires
unmistakable
in every cardinal
direction,
a landmark to observe
our location in another world
where despair matures
into knowledge
& the reliability
of transition
comforts:

the sun will rise
just as it alters
profound loss
with awareness
of your own mortality,

these cadences
of light & disaster
reveal our limitation,

the hillsides stripped
from wildfire
that year,
and each one
that followed.

Isabel Balée is a poet and art-person based in Oakland. Poetry and essays have appeared recently in MARY Journal, Wolfman New Life Quarterly, Jacket2, and Ursus Americanus. In 2015, she received her MFA from Brown University, and now she's back in school for graphic design. Links to writings, updates, and other experiments can be found at her website: http://ibalee.me/