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.
wyrdwind 