when you sing your spirit
i have to keep mine
from rushing out of my mouth
to greet you.


blessed {or: a retelling of my birthstory}

{original posting}

my arrival was cloaked in silence
rest. immobility.
more like a wake than a birth...

there was praying
wringing of hands...

i was early but
cosmically punctual;
i had to belong
to neptune:
ruler of murky and
clear waters
destined to duality,
soul comprehension.

the prayer became protection
prenatal apprehension an excuse for fierce independence
"no need to worry...i am here."
hands that rubbed themselves raw
in anticipated grief
were rarely turned to me in anger
but fed/held/clothed me
with love

relearned priestess rites thru
house-playing shame
...the universe has to
make up for our deletions;
denied rites of passage become
misplaced ashe
creeping into unicorn wallpapered bedrooms...


lived life in books and magazines
...it was like the written word
was never lost to me
i'd kept
the histories/mysteries/stories/wisdom
too long
to forget.

my womb is lined with
cave etchings
sumerian script and
griot lessons
hieroglyphs they haven't uncovered on earth yet...

if they could decipher menstruation,
they'd find many women
are actually treasure maps.

goddess heritage my birthright
not because i'm african--but because i remember.

willfully refusing amnesia
in the face of babylon.


the ritual

they placed me on the altar...the tea they'd given me dulled my senses, made me sluggish and weary.

i snapped awake when i saw the knife hovering above my head, then my heart...

i begged them to spare me--anything but death. suddenly lucid, i wiggled my naked torso, struggling against the binding on my hands and feet, still begging, don't spill my blood...

an elder woman heard me and stopped the priest's hand. 

her will is strong, she said. if she does not want to die, she must be put on trial.


a new season...

spring is coming...

she always brings hyperawareness;
a near constant state of arousal.

all my senses light up.
breezes feel like kisses;
i can smell the earth before/after the rain;
my heart blossoms with the tree buds;
the wind sounds different.

coats and clothing slowly thin out.

small pleasures include
a day without socks,
going to lunch without a jacket.

i've been blessed with deep, sweet love dreams
i revel in their deliciousness as i write them down...

i feel delicious

something like
a perfect peach
waiting to be split open
then devoured...

{he's gotta have a pretty mouth...}

of course,
summer is my true season.

but the prelude is nearly as nice.