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Dvesha
for Sandi and Carla

Since my mother hated beets,
I always refused them—

until one night at a diner,
a friend insisted, try them.

The blood of one single purplish-red globe
dripping across the formica table,

the thing speared between the tines of my fork,
how much we kill before killing,

all that we deny, all the white lies,
who or what are we protecting?

And how many of us are running from
and running to: pleasure, yes;

pain, no. And how easy it is to lock a door,
one half turn of the wrist and safe,

but from what?
During meditation, Carla says:

Try to taste your own heart
and I return to this, new to the city,

with a new friend after midnight,
dank, brave and earthy bite—

I was hooked. Though it took years for me
to peel my own, let my own hands be stained,

because after all, how can any of us escape
the beat of Shiva's drum,

our own our magenta desire
without noticing how rich the color

of blood, our lives, bubbling up
from an open wound before we

apply the band-aid, and kiss
our pain away.

—by Carly Sachs

Photograph by Carla Stangenberg. See full version.

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