Without Hope, by Kate Copeland

The Broken Column, by Frida Kahlo (México) 1944

Without Hope
​
On vulnerable evenings 
the bed brings animals, death, to life
Undressing the most instant nails
while deepdown the worship begins 
a passion - a fear, to be 
of the same volatility 
as he is, yet to be in
such shiny pain became a sort of 
petty peddling too - an act of doom 
There was kindness in our moves
and his magical glances, 
right 'fore turning him
being my accident again
My deseo, the lapis colours
my bi-feminismo, the Aztec icons
In my defence: I was only 15
looking up - looking at
him, mirrors, love, violence 
bareness, roots, la casa azul
In my defence: a heart so full 
of pain, death, I can hardly 
descry the beasts at all. 
Dread for chain reactions,
for bad quacks and swallowed spines. 
Praying for light shoulders, 
for some sun. I won't use my feet.
Please hold me, Diego

Kate Copeland

Kate Copeland started reading libraries and absorbing her family's stories since she was a little lass. Her love for words led her to teaching and translating some dear languages. Her love for art led her to some ekphrastic poetry, bringing her to write her own poems too. The subsequent writing waves made their ways in publication...leaving a crave for more! She was born in Rotterdam some 51 years ago and adores housesitting in The United Kingdom and Spain.