Jill Bolte Taylor's Stroke of Insight


Sunday, March 24, 2013


You, he growls
you unbound
unlawful beauty
his eyes rolling with something
that looks like rage but isn't.

He touches me, calls me
rough but loving names: pagan angel,
pillow-biter, naked savage.
He watches me like I am the
only woman he has ever seen.

What is it I find there? in his eyes
he keeps lidded and hid?
You hellbound beast, he says
with hoarse affection
(for he loves me in his way)

but I am too far gone to care where
he thinks I am going, the heights
are already in sight
he will take me there or I
will ride him there myself

pushing the white pony onward
unlawful unbound
wings starting now to spread--
pagan or not, no angel am I
astride him still in leather boots

and nothing else. Now begins the alchemy
of distilling all these things down
to one blinding white flash:
rage need want scent and sound
affection and a warm stranger's hand

and here it is at our fingertips--this brief
creation of one from two; this union
unconsecrated, unrecognized
taming the turmoil for these
fierce moments.

You, he pants
you gorgeous creature
you unrepeatable goddess--and then
we roll together into darkness
no rage, no fear, this animal trust.

And in sleep I am leaving, always leaving
a pagan angel after all
closing for now her far-seeing eyes
wrapped in flightless wings and
waiting on a paling, uncertain dawn.

KB © 3/24/2013

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