Waiting. I can’t work like this. I desire to be free.
Two hundred desert miles from me the dance
is beginning, in her. Or him, sweet
no matter which. Her profile says, “Looking for friendship and love.”
She is a man born female, becoming a woman, with blue
sheets on her bed, the only color to interrupt the dull light
of her husband’s beige taste. Until I arrive. I light
the room on fire with my presence, my free
spirit, unencumbered. Blue
feelings ooze from her immaculate, sterile home. Is she permitted to dance
here? Is love
allowed? Her husband wants a man, a sweet
gay flower, a man more sweet
than a ripe persimmon. Light
flickers on the tip of Ava’s tongue, a love
I whine for, like one of Rumi’s love dogs. She is free
to be male or female, sweet or fierce, to dance
or to spar. Oh, but Ava, please don’t make my heart blue.
Cupid’s arrow reached me lifetimes ago. The blue
cosmos told stories of your mouths, both sweet.
It showed me the dance
of Baryshnikov, a light
you carry in your boyishly scarred torso free
of the weight of breasts. I love
reciting verse for you. I begin again with Rumi, “I would love
to kiss you.” Shyly you lower your eyes. The blue
light of the city glows where you stand, asking, “Are you free
to spend the night with me?” Sweet
miracle! Gasp! Breathe! Temper yourself, dear. Rose light
enters our company. We dance
together, hands like falling water finding their dance
within a dance within a dance. Love,
I don’t know, is it? This is blue light
looking into the eyes of light blue,
and not running away. Sweet,
wet, white shower of a woman, you set me free.
Ava, you dawn in me like morning light and dance
in me like angels. Free love?
Is it possible? Can a being so bold, so blue as you be, on me, sweet?
Sestina Spring 2016
If everything in the land body has a purpose, like the wolf or the juniper, then what is ours — our human purpose — collectively, as a species? Leopold dichotomizes between the land body and the human body, yet he also speaks of ecology and the relationships of all things in the context of a system.
For instance, of what use is it that humans go into nature to excavate our own psyches? We do it. We are unique in our ability to do it. How does that contribute to the ecological whole?
Leopold also says that, “Man kills what he loves,”
and that, “An ecologist lives alone in a world of wounds.”
My body has been broken, also my heart. It is helpful to know that this is the way of it. This is how the apricot tree blooms: by breaking open the seed. This is how she remembers her own inherent self-worth; this is how she remembers to take the risk of blooming again. This doesn’t mean that life becomes easier; it means that life is lived with greater courage.
Story originally published in snapdragon: a journal of art and healing, spring 2020, issue 6.1: vibrant | vision. https://www.snapdragonjournal.com/
Each of us who is not seen in this world, who is not invited to be present in our full eccentricity, in ownership of our truest gifts, is abandoned.
In an economically driven world, we are orphans, forever in need of love and nurturing, holding and listening.
The intention of the writing has been to explore shame, femaleness, reproduction, sex, the body. A specific goal within the intention has been to explore, to excavate, to say out loud the choice to make the female self, the female body a priority, to decide when and under what circumstances to allow another life to inhabit it. Patriarchal ideology has decided for the female body that it is a “host” for life and not, in itself, a life. And, further, that it, the female body, can be a source for pleasure, but that its pleasure is derivative.
I look out at the man across the street taking care of his yard.
I look out from behind the paneled window pane.
a world is created between us.
There are feelings out there,
on the other side of the glass:
a whole city,
about who we are
and who we are supposed to be.
There are feelings out there,
where the agave is blooming.
you lay on a mat exercising your pelvis.
I stand in my blue bathrobe, hair wet.
It is so quiet, only:
The movement of your belly up and down as you breathe,
the tea kettle,
the shuffle of paper.
I stand in my bathrobe writing a poem
about the feelings out there
and the world in here,
that has stopped,
full of bath water and fresh eggs.
I use creative non-fiction, autobiographical fiction, and poetry to communicate, connect, and understand.