The Real Blood of the Heart
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

the flesh doesn’t
impinge on the spirit
the flesh is
spirit that walks
on slippered feet
and carries
cardiognosis
the first the last
systolic metaphors abound
it can be touched
open
and vexed closed
it follows
the body’s impetuses
and also the other
way around every movement
soaked
in arousal
never marginalized
hardly invisible
speaks
many languages
lives full
of little renaissances
its tears
the real blood
of the heart

Put it This Way
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

I.

When Ravana
was killed,
the sun
spilled everywhere,
when Ratnakar
chanted: “mara, mara, mara,”
the gaps between
the words disappeared,
and became “rama, rama, rama.”

2.

Flowers can’t unbloom.
We all
wake up
in celestial mode,
all these words
look like
so many lines
of EKG’s
and echocardiograms.

3.

The day says:
“Put it this way:
remember to let in
a little chaos.
It’s the countermovements
that shed the most
light.”

What Tertullian Said
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

After morning, the day says:
“Let’s put it this way, etcetera, etcetera.”
And I wake, rubbing up against reality,
the small self rebinding.

The rainmaker has come to town,
and, on behalf of silence, I will
knock the angel’s mouth
away from Mary’s ear.

We are all walking gravemarkers,
and the frogs with the golden eyes
are better gods.

The world moves in languages,
and the other dead are telling us things–
about how everyday ends unfinished.
Radiance, use your metaphoric mind
for the better use of hope, and say along
with Tertullian: “I believe because it’s absurd.”

If My Soul is a Bird
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

If my soul is a bird
mine is a carrion crow
looking for shiny things,
cracking clams open on the rocks,
and harassing foxes for their kill.

When the Simurgh said:
“Engulf yourself in me that you may
find yourself in me.” I would laugh,
and drop a walnut into traffic
for the cars to do the heavy work
so I could pick out the soft,
scattered bits when the light
turned red.

What is there to discern? Everything
is transitional, and the day is sketched
with a light hand. Nevertheless, sometimes
I tremble with admiration at the dew
disappearing itself into the sky,
and how the night devours the day
in the dark mouth of its wings.

The Goodhearted Sun
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The day, sketched with a light hand,
came fully winged. The goodhearted
sun gestured towards the horizon.
Such delicate equilibrium in the ear
of the soul. The little spirals,
the verifications of distance and source.
Self by self, everything is transitional.
Everything carries death’s due date.
What isn’t a soul event?
Even if there isn’t a prevailing wind,
take the further step. Morning insists.
The revelation of the inaccessible is happening
right before your eyes.

What We Both Want to Know
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Death stood in my bedroom door.
“Teach me,” he said, “why
can’t I hear the birds?”

“Why can’t I hear your footsteps?”
I said. He said: “Why can’t I feel
the wind?”

I said: “How is it you have the universe
stitched in your robe?” He said: “Can you
really see your breath in the winter?”

I said: “Enough questions. Come to bed
and we can teach each other what we both
want to know.”

Shining Over the Road
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

The night’s shadows slacken across the horses
and fences. There’s a favoring wind.

Why keep borrowing bodies lifetime after lifetime
just to strike the match to see light following sound?

There are prime meridians everywhere. Every step
is an answer. The horses leaning over the fence

are waiting for you to bring straw in a basket
and a couple of cold apples to clean their teeth.

Spirit corresponds to spirit, corresponds to body,
and yours is pure light shining over the road.

Dragons Hidden in the Clouds
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Rafters and ceiling beams collect all the sounds.
The day’s undercarriage somehow bypasses
the linguistic mind. In the morning mountains,

monks cut the stream to the quick and step
out, turning into deer. No matter how hard it tries,
the rabbit always draws the hawk’s attention.

Make the quick leap to escape the closing mind.
The trees pantomiming “go that way,” “no that way,”
are of little help, although stately.

Inasmuch as the unadorned day comes to wake
the garden’s sleepy audience, it also sees
to the downward movement of the stars.

The eye at the center of the door has closed. Let’s talk
about our failures—crying, then laughing.
There are dragons hidden in the clouds.

Make Up Your Mind from the Beginning
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Make up your mind from the beginning.
Emptiness leaps from heart to heart.
The day is fumbling with its papers.
Death’s long seeking shadow full
of tigers and iron rises over the frozen lake.

Take the first step and the starting point disappears.
Practice wonderful things.
The avocado on the counter has ripened.
The golden carp is out of the net.
The day is raining flowers.

Stop doddering around the house, and go
topsy turvy out the door—it’s OK.
There are cicada screams trapped in rocks
that need to be set free. With one clap
of thunder the storm is gone.

Calling Up the Bones
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

When we hear the bell inside where
will we go? When our lights start setting
bushels on fire, then what?

There’s nothing stopping us from having
a lie down under a tree. One day our self-care
will start the apocalypse.

River rats have tumbled the careful zen-
arrangements of rocks we made on the creek side.
Listen–I need to hear this as much as the next.

Why are we cutting the umbilical cords
to the dead? Orgies of violence are on the way.
We’re all going to need to ask for help.

Throw off the bushels. Let our larger than life
lights shine.  Before it’s too late–call up the bones
of the dead, and enflesh them with our wanting to live.