love is the reverberation
of a muted song,
spinning but unspun in a spool.
left over images on the reel, woven
pasts and recycled words
all interconnected into
a massive structure of rewinding time.
you drag it through the street
and beg others to
watch, listen, or feel.
if your bartering isn’t accepted,
another empty echo is hoarded.
some mornings you wake me with a call
to arms, or a crawl as if in deep trenches
perhaps just your color wakes me,
as it twists into my dreams
becoming my dreams, pulling
the blackness from behind my eyelids
into the bed, taking shape and texture
you are a soft fiddle head fern
that runs through the wind,
imitating an ash-throated flycatcher
your forgiveness comforts me
and wakes me at night
I found what it meant to be deserving
in the whispering communion of yellow morning song.
behind the blinding curtain that would rise
for our most famous star.
each word that I would ever write was waiting there,
right beyond my grasp,
waiting for my grasp.
each heartbeat that had yet to fill up my ear
and every thread that longed to graze my face
was on the backside of the world,
through the spinning wonderment.
I grew up in a different town,
in a different place.
amassed my infantry,
while he colonized space.
the formation of a freckle,
unlike his bearded face.
green eyes less thoughtful,
than my cold blue grace.
grain of wood creates waves around my carpet,
a multicolored coastline
with it’s frayed edges, concealing mollusks and dog hair.
to follow the natural flow of the patterns
is to step back in time, or through the door
that separates living and loving.
tracing my fingers over them,
splinters collecting in my sensitivity,
realizing it’s not an ocean at all.
if it was, I would never leave the safety of my bed.
you can’t pay for an ocean but you can pay
for the Earth,
with it’s supplies that it kindly deals out to you.
no hidden motive except in your own humanity.
bartering may be safer than buying.
knowledge of relationships
quiet mind of mine
life with play is worth living
grow with creation
soap on my fingers
dishes are signs of caring
stomach full of love
fur against the wood
my head swimming with lightness
content and alone
there was a time when you sat across from me
(in a chair,
made by hands,
made by sex,
made by love,
made by a story you’ll never know)
and I thought
about a story we could write,
made by our hands,
and I heard you say, “I can’t wait to fuck you.”
and I’ll hear you
and know that you meant what you said
and you didn’t mean, “I’ll make a chair for you.”
faces forward and frontlit
our backs curling in a unison of “C’s”
one letter to one alphabet
in one secret language we all speak
her ponytail/my braids
her winsome breasts/my spotted cheeks
and I promise I’ll find more reasons
to love us
because there are so many reasons
to love a woman
Now that I know what it feels like
To taste salt and say it’s sweet,
I can’t help but fear
That one day in the future
I’ll lay on a beach with you
sometimes I dance when I’m alone
and I smile at myself
for having the courage
to love myself, wholly