Not A Poet, Just A Woman.
Much of the “poetry” I write deals with my general existence as a woman, the experiences defined by womanhood, and those of my family, friends, and fellow women. Within the below, I have compiled a few of these works into a poetry-esque series that confronts these very experiences and much more. As I nurture and grow in my writing, I hope to share more of these “poems.” But, for now I’ll use the word poetry flexibly as I don’t know if I’m yet a poet— just a woman telling stories about women.
A Woman’s Dream
As I traveled through the crevices of space and time, I saw myself, spread in between conscience and unconsciousness, playing with stars and pinching at the cellulite between my hip and upper thigh. Before the sky could open up into heaven, a consolation of breasts and bosoms manifested as the same stars once filling the sky. Faster than the speed of light that flashes in the eyes of a fresh infant, I fell through this anatomical sky to land right where I began,
Pinching at the fat
Between my hip and upper
Thigh— a rippling sea.
Mother Earth
If i hold her for too long i start to envision her as mother earth,
and not her breasts as hills
littered with wildflowers that follow the wind’s breath.
Certainly not her face,
elongated with a sensual smile, as the sun on a still day,
commanding me to
stare myself into silent sobs.
No. that isn’t her at all.
she sits in the cusp of my hand, and bits of her
beauty fall through the spaces between my fingers,
releasing herself, falling and melting
into the ground below her.
Bent down, i taste her being,
Resigning myself to the grain and crunch of dirt.
Mannequin
rip me apart piece by piece,
exchange my slow rising lungs for objective observation,
because i’m meant to be caressed (coerced)
am I not?
dump the remnants of my remaining flesh into the river and
allow me to swim among friendlier creatures.
they can sink their teeth into me
and ask forgiveness after they’ve tasted
the sweet rot of my damp flesh.
kinder than man,
they’ll consume all of me
and leave nothing to see.
slut
I had a friend that called herself a slut;
a self titled reclamation of sorts.
this always intrigued me because she’d
never felt the touch of another,
the cool warmth of gentle, guilded
sexual desire.
She’d been told abstinence
was the best form of birth
control—
didn’t deter the stranger
and his
Control.
From then on a
freezing fire planted it’s home
in a reclaimed— rather
usurped edifice.
We sat in the silence
of shared experience
while I discovered a new identity.
