wyrdwind

Cinnabar Moth

I won’t come out and say so,

but I’ll plant

every splashed and saturated

red varietal, every stage

of bleedin’ out,

smooth and torn and feathered petals

on tulips

outside your bedroom window

and tell you about

a Persian craftsman

who fell in love with a princess,

his ardor mutual. He made his suit

but her father set a task impossible.

Carve a staircase up a mountain alone,

all the way to the top.

He didn’t balk. On the eve

of his crowning achievement, that king

told him the princess was dead.

Who knows what lies

made him believe it.

The craftsman stepped off

the edge, the final step,

and fell to his death.

The princess in the throes of grief

went to meet him,

unwilling to choose any other man.

Where their blood mingled,

the first tulips grew.

Over there where I’ve got

irises Ozark, Before the Storm,

Mother Earth and Dangerous Mood,

I might speak of kodoku,

where a sorcerer seals venomous

insects inside a jar

and hides it under someone’s bed.

They fight and cannibalize,

slither and claw in absolute darkness,

gorging all the while

on the victim’s loneliness, their howling void.

One insect emerges victorious and hideous,

wreaks destruction and misfortune

upon completing pupation

if he nursed a single drop less

than the purest concentration

of love

utterly unclouded by doubt.

Nuclear fusion self assurance, one

assigned victim status by others in ignorance

of true nature. Their fatal mistake.

Across the way, perhaps ragwort,

which grows where crudely cleared

woods and overgrazed fields are left raw,

upon disturbed and degraded soil,

in a real fuck you yellow,

puts the big poison pop in solarpunk

and is the sole food source

of a vivid and voracious moth.

Maybe you’ll ask

what he became after all,

everything he did to make it out,

the lunar obverse of his host’s heart. His other half.

Well a human can shed at any years old,

and I won’t make a fuss or put on a show,

but every day for the rest of your life

you’ll know.

The Honored Ghosts

When my favorite

perfume oil by Alkemia rubs off,

lingers wherever warmth of blood,

leave it on,

a murmured afterglow of the rush,

remember, I’ve said

I’m a territorial lover

and I don’t even need to be there

to touch ya, everyone

knows what we’ve been up to,

got my man low down salivatin’,

jumps when I say gimme drip,

what a woman knows ’bout penetration,

every tongue tip tendon fit to snap,

serpent slicked mirror cracks on his mind—

filled that—you like a bit o’ that

third person, but you’re the only one,

I’ve a handle on how you’re strung,

Midas did it wrong, Isis did it first,

just you and me Baby,

an all day affair settin’ up

to make ofrenda,

heavy on the O sound,

really take the wind out.

I’ll swallow your last breath

just to put it back again,

got that holy water right here

to baptize a brand new man

put him right

between my legs, call that

jaws of life on a baby gate—

ever seen saltwater crocs mate?

Surprisingly,

the bull heaves subwoofer grunts

so the shallow water over his ridges

dances like raindrops. Then

if the cow shows interest

in his instrument—

indeed it may be argued,

this is why the bulls are so large—

he blows bubbles, rubs her tender

chin, belly and chest with his snout

until she’s satisfied.

She’ll dive

and rub up under him

so he knows to get his.

My point is,

these guys do the most.

Up to 2,200 pounds,

3,700 psi and not an ounce

of force involved.

If she says nope,

he says alright.

Better luck next time.

Why?

Only the oldest and meanest cow

has the strength to defend

a mother mound,

her salt ensures maximum

survival of their young.

Her ears are so sensitive,

a mother can hear

her young’s distress, busy eggs,

newborn hatchlings buried

65 feet away. 20 meters.

My point is,

there’s gotta be somethin’

when it comes to natural selection,

in the way these prehistoric earth

and tide bound recollections

go about their lovin’.

They’ll still be here

when we’re gone.

Real Folk Blues

Ain’t that just like a man,

only value life once it’s ended,

cartels send flowers to victims’ funerals,

pay the band, pray the Lady of the Dead,

just like a man

thinks The Giving Tree

is a bittersweet but happy story,

thinks his place to take

an ax to a redwood’s glory,

ask what that wood is worth

only if it’s lumber.

Say you don’t have words

what she meant to ya,

howl a kicked dog

now she’s moved on.

Son dogs do better,

know better,

love better,

lie down there,

always remember

a woman held them first,

brought wolf pups from the woods,

shared warmth at her hearth,

every fuckin’ species on Earth

knows to trust

the fairest sex.

Men? Not so much.

Ain’t even sense enough,

guilt enough to tail tuck

when I come home and ask

what have you done? Ears flat.

Won’t hear you cry about it,

rollin’ in the filth you made,

puffin’ chests and paper crowns,

sittin’ in a palace of shit

atop a mass grave.

I don’t need sorry,

give me yes ma’am,

I said all hands

on deck, I said

fault is not the same

as responsibility.

Do you understand me?

Boy, do you understand me?

What language do we speak?

The Mother Tongue.

Bruja-ja

The first time

I let a man into my room,

told him to get cleaned up

and comfortable,

came back and he done forgot

what he was there for,

wide eyed staring at the ceiling,

walls, and floor. Gestured

helpless at my wardrobe and décor

for some minutes. Stranger

through a forbidden door to a world

he didn’t belong. I leave nothing

untouched. Finally managed,

“It’s like a geisha house.”

“Is that a real sword?”

“You sleep like the caterpillar

when it’s…before.”

Didn’t have the heart to tell him

I learned to burrow when I was young

to escape notice and aggression,

another screaming session.

Whoever sees it always wonders

if our reality is the same one,

unspoken, if I’m fully human.

Like human is just a skin I’m wearin’

for now.

My tent?

It’s the A-frame on the edge of a glade,

a semi-social distance away,

with glass lanterns, solar string lights,

a living room and a kitchen

I made from scratch. A proper bed.

While the others ate SPAM and cold beans,

I seared a perfectly seasoned steak

over open flame.

You’ll notice, like always,

the children aged 14 to 5, all eight

wandered my way while their parents drank.

I took them into the forest, a real

buddy system hike, to see what we could find.

For a moment

the others wondered nervously after us,

then the most Mexican dad said,

“Nah, she’s a witch.”

“They’ll be fine.”

Rock Dove

Put some respect on my greys.

Smoked sea salt, poppies, Lavender Orpingtons,

silver Highlands, Fjord horse dun,

and our most constant companions,

pigeons.

No two the same urban smatter pattern.

Loyal, gentle homebodies,

cooing and purring, if you must,

no better soundtrack to weep.

When they’re puffy in a puddle?

Goodness me.

It’s a thick fog,

glimmering canvas of soft rain mist,

the swell and ache of monsoon season,

furrowed electric of a mounting thunderhead.

Concrete a different beast entirely

once you add mica, glass, or quartz.

Ever seen a salt and pepper diamond?

Gorgeous.

Razor cut Cailleach adamant.

Oh I’m Boujee Native

drippin’ southwest sterling to boot.

To the eye, grey recedes. Accentuates

its companions. It’s experience, mercy,

the capacity to sedate. Grief.

Grace.

When I wield the brush or cloth,

all grape skin, stone, and ice purples, visceral reds,

oceanics, flame, midnights orchestrate.

Some pine, moss, lichen, and velvet sage greens.

But in the wild and in my heart

my favorite color is grey.

Lifehouse

If it weren’t obvious,

the point not fine enough:

God is women, plural,

all of us. My religion, my code

if the Way

of the Mother and Earth,

and when Her spirit is admired

and her will respected,

we’re the architects of heaven.

I’ve said it’s a state of mind.

A garden.

I know a place,

blink and you’ll miss,

fought from the grip

of the grind.

Gods willing, my husband—

should such a creature exist

and be suitably strange,

exhibit all the complementary shapes—

well he’s floatin’ around here most days,

such as that fine blue shade

of a storm bearing down the range.

Don’t be afraid, you know they say

storms bloom when Nut and Geb

make love despite the Sun

who bade them separate.

Despite burning eyes.

They who bore the twins

Isis and Osiris,

lovers in their own rite.

Oh until you’ve suffered the dire

desert heat, you don’t know how to feel

the rain. The ocean

came all this way just

to shower kisses on your face, pelt

the land, quench.

When I throw shade

it’s with the number of mouths

I feed, how many different things

growing.

Bruised and shuttered kids

with nowhere else to hide,

our daughter’s friends

and then some. Who or whatever

dropping by. Too-young moms

running from some guy, plucked the courage

to seek my door in the night.

I’ll round ’em up

for fire and feast days. Drink.

Other parents love or hate me,

got those punk thorns FTP,

I will throw hands

at someone’s bullshit daddy,

cut brakes on a rapist, bonus points

if he’s a priest,

I do not care who he is.

Ain’t creepin’ on my Baby,

that’s plausible deniability, blood

of my blood, secret heart, I would not lie.

All practice and no preach,

skip bark straight bite, I do hope

my man can handle spice

because no two can save the world,

a whole chorus it takes,

but we’ll be the reason

some broken child can look up

and say

it doesn’t have to be this way.

@~^~

Note: Baccara Box Step is a little dance I made up after one of my favorite roses. Always admired ballroom but it takes a real particular kinda partner to convince me to slow down and be held, and I am not one to be led. Loosely working on a phantom waltz that might incorporate a stylized Jingle Dress.