Her

Whose violence is vocal, whose
lyrical exhalation is a cold wind,
whose eyelashes are nets trapping
the bycatch of beautiful vision,
whose sweat is a fuel for sleeping
sickness,
whose history is an ocean of tears,
whose love is measured in the
misspent years between trying
and hopelessness, between
the faceless I and the changed
I,
whose two spirited truth seals
this night time casket,
night time night,
whose cruelty is soft, and
innocent, and honest.

I understand/I don't understand.