USA

jarin@csli.stanford.edu

Self-Defense

This blond-braided
Texan, former kick-box
champion speaks on T.V.
about Yim Wang Chun,
a Shaolin nun who created
Kung Fu. A woman's way to be
safe I reason, writing
down the toll-free number.

In class he instructs us to tear
testicles from the groin, thrust
fist into throat: force the hard
part of a woman
into the soft part
of a man.

Now punch! One! Two!

We practice fists, protect
the thumb.

One! Two!
Men are as easy
to hurt
as you.

Once a friend's ex-lover
fired on us all; how can flesh
match the bullet's rush?

Left! Right! Left!

I kissed her
blue lips, blew breath
the pierced lung refused.

One! Two!
Men are as easy to hurt
and kill as you.

Predator or prey; what happened
to Buddha's Middle Way, or is this
the answer Yim Wang Chun prayed for?

Right! Left! Right!

Left!

My hands hurt. I open
my fists, palms up,
as if I could be a human cup
collecting ch'i, the life force.

Sightseeing
after the painting "Nanda Devi #2" by Joan Brown

One irresistible corner of pink
before entering pure sky. After three
marriages and a childhood heavy with religion
you began on canvas climbing Nanda Devi, Goddess
of Joy. Vishnu, Preserver of Worlds, lived
in these pearlescent peaks and blue-
hued crests, coral strokes
of edge and ridge. Brushing past
what had passed you washed color over
carbon crevices of mountain and mind.
The purpose of life, your wise man
advised, is divinity within. Realizing
that divine journey with your guru, you grew
a red dot on your forehead, quite the sight
farther in, farther out, further light
which, in you, Joan, might seem too bright,
even in a brilliant place like that.

Transformations
after the painting "Harmony" by Joan Brown

Below
the ochre sun
I spatter true red
and sulphur, hints of ele/mental
fire, my half, human self;
the other
.
half: feline
that lands stance open
to lapis skies. Unconscious
comes in focus; the moon
crafts night, which is not
diminished vision, but
reckoning, re/
cognition.

Balance
that happens: sacred
women, sacred symbols.
I paint across the mind's
divide, adjust my eyes
to the change
in light.

The Spanish Dancer's Siesta
After the painting "Siesta" by Charles Nahl

Indulgent trudge of in-
between, dense dance.
Like the cat relaxing her weight
against the doorway's warm wood,
I let the afternoon heat
hold me in nectared folds.
For my body to carry me
over these indigo tiles, it must forget
the ache of hard-heeled shoes
and vertebral strain, the companion
crease along the brow. Relax.
What finally moves
the mind is what awaits beyond
the mandolin and lazy shawl,
curtain and gate: green grove,
then sea, where waves resonate.
Dancing at last my body lifts;
hands circle with intention;
my palms partner those palms.

Shared Strengths

Since the haircut I notice
more the field of his face:
eyes larger, lips pinker
than I knew, cheeks creasing
in their folds of time. I receive
my man's full features, bold
exposure, and know
the story of Samson, Delilah
and the scissors is half
true only; hair isn't linked
to strength. I watch him
sleep turned toward me,
waking if I rise, revealing
almost a woman's instinct
of presence, the potency
of open.

Aftermath

This is the hard transition.
Years ago, she combined her
sum with his. Their calculation:

two positive numbers, simple addition.
Now he tries to remind her
of everything hard lost in this transition

but to her recollection
resentment, too, defined her,
different needs, their relation.

Hoping to stop their division
he tries to re-find her
through a romantic evening or two, but can't change their hard transition

through single acts. She weighed each option
before becoming love's guilty rescinder,
released reaction.

They refrain from touch, awkward caution,
as she moves away from what undermined her
and toward the heart's hardening transition.
Sad cancelled equation.

© All Copyright, Jennifer Arin.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.