hip, whispers and eyes

swish, tickle and pry:

what business is it of yours,

as i am not of you,

only through you

where and with whom

and how sweetly i lie

i do not require your approval

nor your forgiveness

they don’t know her

but for the soft surface

hard won

where are they

these words

lit up just beyond my grasp

don’t i nurture them

don’t i jump right in

give myself to them

don’t i absorb their energy

their bodies

their need

give them a soft place to fall

don’t i open myself up to receive all the movement

the skyfall, the breathless

and the unknown

don’t i hold it all as precious and make myself entirely vulnerable

do i not know myself as a vessel

do i not risk the whole of me

putting aside sleep

and better choices

and self-care

for this magic

this drift

this stretch and this burn and this light

at my center

and at the farthest reaches of all i could know

and hold it to me

all at my own peril

don’t i

The poem, Me Too, is upsetting. It was upsetting to write. Also upsetting, were the events that precipitated its writing. What I would like for everyone to understand is that I DO NOT hold ALL MEN responsible. Only the “baffled, rapacious” ones.

Sincerely, Laura

i know why we are demonized

and in so many ways diminished,

stripped of our beauty, our flags,

our voices and memories

our truth to power

our power

our efficacy

and rightful anger

our raised fist

because if we were not

if me too

were the acknowledged last words on the subject

then it would be all those boys, all those men

throughout all of his story

baffled and rapacious

that would/must be the demons

this evening i am at the corner of a glyph and the full rising moon

on an eggshell

blue sky

a songbird in my ear

and a man on my mind

and yes

i know a moment of grace

when it circles round

and falls into me

this morning i was

barely awoken

still silk and drift

and dream-spent

and now

now is a bit more complicated

she, like the clouds, would sometimes experience a similar drift pattern

lifted up and away

lit

and stretched thin

reaching heedlessly for what little she knew of the world

patterned green and blue below

storied in whispers that she would sometimes gather to her, like clouds

and try to hold

i’ve used that title once before

portrayed my anger as a result of being raped

for those that had been (i told myself)

as i hadn’t

though now have

but that’s not even where i thought i was going with this

this began in a more literal place

because of where we all are now

at the mercy of these microscopic parasites

just trapped and waiting

like that girl in my poem

sitting in that dirty cell

not wanting to hold herself accountable

angry, vulnerable, awash in the stench of mistakes repeated

held in place like a bug on a pin

dreadful isn’t it

how we find ourselves in these same places

these playgrounds and petri dishes

living out the vicissitudes of our nurturing and our natures

looking for whom to blame

when really, it is an inevitability, isn’t it

ruin

(but, also, renewal)

Taste of salt and blackberry

Overzealous at times but

Nubile and

Good at what she does

Understand me and the sibilant, somnolent

Energy residing silkily, here on my tongue