Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
We have found
the keys of heaven.
Us women.
Between us.
Breath to breath.
Hips to hips.
Ass on the sunshine.
Sunshine on the ass.
Blessed mornings.
Deep still nights.
Now we have found these
keys.
And we.
We are going to give them
away.
The angel order.
The order of angels.
Libertines
and Liberators.
Let’s give these keys to
everyone.
I’m taller than her.
She knows how to hold me
in a womanly way.
She’s held a tall woman before.
She’s an athlete.
I think that helps her with
confidence and cool calmness.
She’s stronger than my last
girlfriend and my last girlfriend
was pretty strong.
I really like strong women.
Swoon. It’s my achilles.
I love feeling weak in my
babe’s arms.
She’s coming.
The full moon is coming.
In the forest is a vast multitude
of love and beingness.
And so I smoke my cigarette
under the trees
to give them extra carbon
because she’s coming,
the full moon is coming.
God, here she comes.
Yes, she is coming.
I was born male.
She looks at them on my thighs.
Soft brushy freckles.
She likes them.
Her lush lush lips go upon them.
She says I’m such a lovely, lovely
woman.
I giggle.
She kisses my soft, white legs more.
So I gasp and I moan.
This feels right. It feels succulent.
It feels more appropriate than
how I was originally made.
So I turn and I turn it on
more and more.
I burn and she melts me.
We melt together
in midnight and morning sun.
Don’t give me that line.
Don’t.
Then you might push me up against
the wall.
Or, I might push you up against
the wall.
We twist and turn, exchange places.
Two kittens playing.
Bites on the neck.
Gentle, trustful, suspenseful,
pull of the hair.
Lips and fingers to the nipples,
teasing brushes.
Two artists brushing each other
with passion and lust.
Isn’t it best when artists
burn with passion and lust?
Walk through the warm light
of your side parlor room,
love that lamp light loving
your riveting figure,
bring the gold mirror,
bring me your beautiful nose,
tilt those hips.
Give me that line again, babe.
Give it to me.
Inhale. Breathe. I like when you pause.
Then I feel that wet silk on my
ancient concubine hands.
And we twist, and we twist.
She knows I’m beautiful now.
Well, becoming more beautiful.
Though she doesn’t care anymore.
She let that kind of feeling go.
But she knows I’m having that
look these days
that others see and think
I’m a delight to look at and experience.
I might bring lust into a room.
There could be lust.
She could see my dark eyes
and my long eyelashes drawn across
the suspended air in stillness, calling
something sultry and sensual,
that dark hair majesty,
there with my cheekbones,
drawing my naughty eyes out
and shining on the naughty thoughts
of other women I see. Who go thinking.
They see me.
I’m seen.
I’m out.
It’s becoming and uncoming
in very much a way it never has before.
She knows I’m beautiful now.
But she doesn’t care anymore.
She can’t.
It would stop her world
and the kind of afternoons
she needs with herself.
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.
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.
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.
How does it feel
when I touch her?
I don’t need to know this.
I won’t know it.
Not in this stalemate of
consciousness.
Heaven on hold.
Though I felt it on her,
her body on top of my fingers,
the whole of her force.
Yes, I want to know.
Does she feel
what my brain feels inside;
raw madness,
imagination alive
and birth and bloom of
some concept
burning neurons
blurring self
between earthling and
angel
right before,
raw body.
I’m melting.
We’re headed down the
West Coast,
someday in the future.
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