Leave You As Ghosts

I’m going to leave you

as ghosts

back there under that

moonlight.

Your lips left there

on my shoulder

drawing

your big, scared,

sacred, sensual feelings

out of you

there in that

ghostland

where I leave you.

A last time,

an eternal seance

with your feelings there,

not here,

left with the ghost life.

Witch’s word, witch’s covenant.

I step into the sunlight.

Spells In Heartbreak

I set to write the spells in
heartbreak.
The aborted child.
The lost capitalist culture.
The absent love of parents.
The lover whose heart I broke.
The lover who broke my heart.
The abusive father.
The abusive and withholding
partner, and the anger and anxiety
lived towards them.
The two cats who revolutionized
my soul, then lived, created
something joyous,
then died and went away.
The gender I am but in some way
will never wholly be in
other people’s eyes.
The hurtful things said.
The hurtful things heard that
are never surmounted once said.
The living of self that always
carries a crushed something.
The gentle smile I still manage
in soft quiet moments
with myself very still or
across to another’s eyes
who needs my gentle smile.
But I did not write these spells
in word —
I lived and live them.
And I guess they taught and
teach me to
love and love onward
somehow,
in a lifetime, in a life form, in a life
way remade, reformed, and
even revisited.
That is their spell.
That is the spells in heartbreak.

Ripe Moon

Our emotions are full

when the moon is high.

Ripe am I

in your heart and mind.

Over the fields,

the arms of the trees,

sleeping and dreaming.

The northern skies

believe in southern breeze.

The breeze weaves and

weaves

around our bodies entwined,

but separate and solo.

Midnight is right,

the light between leaves.

You’ve awoke in the morning.

Your feelings,

so many of them

underneath the bright moon,

now clear in daylight,

together and simple.

And this is why I cast

dark pearly eyes to the sky

when you are sleeping.

She Is

I can feel a thousand lifetimes

passing through our fingers.

She is a person who would

let a thousand lifetimes

pass through her fingers;

an epoch of love and lovers,

passed over.

She’s done it before,

many times.

I’ve seen it.

And I watch it now.

That’s why I was here again,

to see if things could go

differently.

But they won’t go differently.

She’ll be in this situation again;

it may not be on Earth,

it may be as a woman or as

a man,

it may be as a mom

or as an animal,

but she’ll do this over and

over.

That’s why I leaned in to

love her.

The Last Morning

On the last morning

we were together

I made chilaquiles.

It was good, maybe

the best chilaquiles I had

ever made.

Afterwards we made love

in the middle of her living room,

giant windows all around,

the beaming sunshine

on our breasts,

her flower melting upon me,

two ancient lovers

lost in our ancient eyes together.

Gasps and moans from our souls

from another lifetime,

melting into one another,

we brought one era to a close

and brought a new one

into being.

Heartsick

“Lightning strikes, maybe once? Maybe twice?”

– Fleetwood Mac (from the song Gypsy)

We both smoke
cigarettes
right now
because we’re heartsick.
So in love with the biggest
love we’ve both ever known,
but too tired to move forward.
So we puff, we puff, and puff
to give up on each other.
But I also go out
regularly each morning
and run an 8:45 minute mile…

because I’m strong-hearted,
rooted deep in my soul.

I wish… well… I wanted her
to value my strong heart and soulfulness.
But she didn’t,
so I continue on, running
and smoking and feeling and
mourning.
My heart continues with
the mad beauty and love
that I am
and that I have to offer.

The Oracle Of Sappho At Delphi

She is an oracle
I turn to every 20 years;
to buoy me,
to collect me,
turn me into life.
To say —
no woman will ever love me,
no earthling love for the poet.
Therefore I best believe in
and lean into life;
find the love of life within this.
Her eyes dance at me,
at my spirit’s dancing.
Again, she calls me.
She could be
the Oracle at Delphi.
She was once that.
I’m certain.
I was there with her.
Priestesses.
Priestess sisters.
She says my weight is cosmic.
No woman will ever love you.
You were made for this world.
The healer… diviner.

I hear her.
The tune is unknown.
I hear her.
The Oracle turns coldly,
a reminder;
we make of life and also of others
what we will,
what we can.

The unloving, I don’t hear them.
I have work to do.
Long journey.

Sacred. I love her for her eyes
of stars I look into
and this reforms

the renaissance,

a renaissance of women.
My always lone-woman self.
I take up the call to still
believe in.

I am the sanctuary.
She is my oracle.
She reiterates —
suicide is not one of
my medicines,
nor my spells.

I am saved, so are my lovers.

There is so much work to do.
She does big work.
The legends speak of
the ravines of lost lovers.

Glorious Lady

That glorious lady
came calling to us.
And we knew she would.
Tits to tits,
fingertips to nipple,
then
mouth, teeth, lips to nipple.
After we’d spent 3 weeks
hurting and hating each other,
that powerful, almost full moon,
on her way out,
she called us together, she beckoned.
Two women.
That’s how we do.
Cleaned our heads.
Cleared our hearts.
Set us to the tone of oak tree shadows.
Around her home,
the backyard.
Her strong, soft, determined,
yet gentle lips
found my smooth-skin shoulder.
Her sultry face, suave mouth,
maybe the only that can.
Then yes, I said yes to her,
yes to us,
for a moment suspended
between gold light
in navy night and those waffty clouds,

and the moon called us like
animals.

Good lord,
what will we do with each other?
Our animalism seems certain.
For that glorious lady
showed us.
Two women.

You know, the moon comes ‘round
over and over.

With The Moonlight

You tell me with
moonlight.
What others cannot say.

I’m woman, but I’m
not woman.
It doesn’t matter.
I’m sex and sexuality.

My eyes shine
bright and jeweled
in night
glancing up there,
lofty clouds sail.

You looked,
saw my brunette hair.
It’s fire,
shaded and shaped,
upon your vulva.
This formula of heaven,
my tongue splits upon you.

You looked.
You remembered.
My eyes still shine.
You don’t want to see them.
You can’t unsee them.

The good lover
you wanted.
A body forged with the
beats of your heart.
The moonlight carried
your cries to me.

I’m here

under the three trunk oak.