Tara Mechani

Tara Mechani, her fixtured ribcage recycles the light

for women being torn apart and rebuilt again and again.

Unlike the engine or a piece of hardware, soft and warm,

she glows, soft and warm she controls; no matter the burn,

twenty-five white guys clueless of how a body works,

clueless of the power of her plan! no matter the false narratives

wrapped in unequal terror of territory or the harm in harmony.

From David the goliaths crumbling strips of land gone smarmy

From playa to paseo, wisdom intermingles towards a future

warless in our parks, less war in parks of bloodsoaked nurture.

The strength of the mother’s armature consciously returns

us to the coppery spine of the universe, open neurons from inane

nothingness, blank emptiness, vacant vacuity, hollow void of female

buddha wasteland, bleak barren black hole, womb: the vacuum of life everlasting.