About the Man we Call BJ: Poetry by K. R. Morrison

             Mom said,
  
                         "he introduced me to myself."
  
 youngest of five, her thirstiest child
 what a love story, its red
  
                         words in life’s thick book of black scripture.
  
 forty years later, she basked in love 
 with him, still
  
 silver haired, her heart bags packed 
 for the Great Reunion
  
 i watched her wander those memories
 behind schoolgirl eyes, protecting
  
                         their private labyrinth, no trespassing
  
 she repeats these words like lullaby, as if rocking 
 me on a porch, rather than trapped in her hospice bed
  
                         every word wrapped in nectarine dawn 
  
 like i’d never heard them
 for her, i pretend
  
 traditional, vintage love never gets old, sensing 
 she doesn’t mean what us riotgirls detest 
  
 those of us above graves, lovers alive
  
  
  
 enough to honor androgyny, bury gender
  
                         we too are introduced to ourselves 
  
 in the heart havoc, love that drops its bombs
 via messengers, when the soul mates come
  
 such Bloody Love stirs in eclipses
 plants seeds in dark moons 
  
 ancestor patterns crash into us
 through retrograde rear ends
  
 in the wounds we breed, we recreate 
 so many of us discover ourselves 
  
 in that thorned red mess, love disarming 
 so paths repave, wardrobed 
  
                         in lover catechisms.