je souhaite que je pourrais ecrire en francais.*

maybe it would make something about us
just a little more romantic
just a little less work.

it's become a chore,
lugging around the steel door
i've substituted for my vulva.

the heaviness settles in my womb
closing it to you.

oya's winds
have rubbed me raw...

i'm ready to surrender
to the peace of the ocean.

*i wish i could write in french


litany of an unreformed magdalene

it may sound silly to say that being violated made me who i am, but it's true.

all i wanted was a big brother. i'd tried to please without reservation, against my conscience, against my better judgement...sacrificing myself on a golden flame of my own making.

but all i got was a broken heart.

when i was ready to fully express my sexuality, there were no virginal hang ups (i lost the title before i could even understand what having "the prize" would mean), no religious dogma to combat.

i was just a girl who got a little too much information a little too early about sex and its emotions, misplaced, unwanted, and unrequited feelings, and the thoughts of men--well, boys.

i was never damaged goods, tainted, or some kind of tart.

i just wanted to be left alone behind my long, layered, loose-fitting clothes to ponder the weight of the love i'd lost.

point is, this sexy ain't free.

i did not become a practically minded, chilled out, emotionally secure woman overnight--although it has always seemed natural that my heartstrings existed completely independent of my pussy.

i had to claw my way up the side of a mountain, learning to love again at each step.

oshun has walked much of the way with me, illuminating the life lived with sensuality as a living, breathing tool.

i read about the ancient ways of sacred whores, and they made sense to me. my dreams suggested that i'd been a courtesan some centuries ago, maybe almost as many times as i'd been a priestess.

it was all natural, and right, and within me to be.

so despite the almost-cut arms, the nights i stared down the gun, and all the bitter tears--i can't say who i'd be today if i hadn't lost what i lost, worked through the pain and healed the wounds.

hell was my cocoon, but the fire tempered a beautiful butterfly.



so concerned about
clusters of formless matter
you can't see what's the matter
with fully half grown human beings
languishing on corners and
atrophying in prison cells...

there are children
long left behind
that can't read
can barely write,
yet you're keeping vigil
over the twinkles in folks' eyes
the vague possibilities of what might someday be
blond hair and bluish eyes
getting whisked down
sewer drains
'cause the re-browning
of america
has blinded you

...or maybe it's awakened you.

"for the love of god!
don't kill your white babies!
despite the drugs,
tainted food and water,
hellish living conditions,
and god knows what else
they're still
and many of the babies are still
bright eyed and
despite it all...
and that's just here!
let's not delve into
the cesspool of the '3rd world'...."

you can't build prisons
fast enough
but you'll sink your talons
into my baby's umbilical cord--
to deter
even the notion
of my healing...

your preemptive
death squads
masquerading as
bastions of life
insult my intelligence.

if you're gonna try to seduce me
at least learn some new tricks...


sensual deprivation

i've missed the rush i get from flirting.

the feeling of being watched that leads to the first greeting...

first level of attraction, light banter...sharing just enough information to determine whether or not to proceed...

feeling out how proficient he is at wordplay, his sense of humor, intelligence.

(wisdom makes me wet)

the stares in the almost-awkward silences,
light touches,

becoming acquainted with body language and subtle hints of cologne.

the jolt that comes with an unspoken connection.

...see, it's rare that i find a man truly interesting. my 6th sense often tells me more than i want to know before i even know his name.

even rarer is the definitive tingle between my thighs that tells me this one has something worth keeping--or at least exploring.

my sensuality is my soft spot. electrify my senses, and you can probably have me at least once. intrigue me and it will win you nothing less than a kiss.

the tingle never seems to be caused by the same thing twice.

with one it may be a voice.
with another, our first true eye contact.
his gait.
a well-placed scar.
the movement of his lips as he speaks.
the quiet strength in his hands.
a quick brush of his fingers on some innocently bare skin.

could be anything.
and i haven't been wrong yet.

still, that can be difficult to find on bar stools and in random street encounters.

but every now and then, i get lucky.



it doesn't

i'd like to hug you
hear your voice
see your smile...

my words for you
often get caught in my throat
only now they're not made of lemon juice and vinegar
instead it's like
a not-quite-sweet-enough wine or
an unripe slice of peach;
...the flavor of missing you.

our laughter eludes me.
i cannot remember
what your hands were like,
or your mouth.
yet somewhere
deep in the pit of my stomach
i remember
i feel
i know
there was more
to us...

as i blossom,
i seem to need you a little less
but i never seem to
run out of love. 

the love that rained and dripped and spilled
down those steps
in that bed
on that street
along that hallway
by that window

it etched you
into my soul

your cree sings heartsongs
to my chickasaw

we are still

but we've replaced the
long nights and
wrenching conversations and
passive aggressive arguments and
unrequited magnetism
with something softer
if not sweeter...

we've given our unity
to the universe
and she's used its strength
to hold up the world a little while longer.


can't let go...

i think i love him
'cause he's the only man
brave enough to admit
that my mystery
is obvious.