I found your strap-on harness.
I’m not sure what to do with it.
For a half second I got horny
looking at it,
thinking about how you looked handy
and manly wearing it across your
womanly curves.
You always wear your carpentry toolbelt
with such pride.
Then quickly I got sad and melancholy,
remembering how the last time
you used it on me
I started crying cuz I didn’t feel you were
f**king me with any interest…
then you started crying cuz you felt
critiqued.
I thought about dropping it off on your
front porch,
but I’m not traveling down your street anymore.
Plus, I concluded it would do neither
one of us any good to drop it off at your place.
I can’t keep it cuz not many women
will want to wear a strap-on
that another woman used on me.
I guess there’s maybe some out there
who would,
but I came to the conclusion to throw it
in the trash.
Tag: feminism
Dykes. Dykes don’t give up.
We are loyalty, commitment,
acts of service, follow through,
and attention to detail.
Femmes can be dykes.
Butches are commonly dykes.
Transmen and transwomen are dykes too.
We’re not like straight women,
or bi women, or queer women.
Dykes are patient.
Dykes are open and transparent.
Some dykes might be polyamorous,
but they’re open and honest about
who they love
and what they do with people.
You will almost always know how a
dyke thinks or feels about something.
Dykes are straight shooters.
Dykes speak truth to power if and
when needed.
Dykes are anti-authoritarian and
anti-hierarchal.
Dykes don’t live in fear.
Dykes are kind and celebrate kindness.
Dykes live in light and they believe in
bringing that light to others.
Dykes actually mix well with all
types of people (except for bigots).
Dykes have tended to the trauma of
patriarchy, worked out a lot of stuff
on the path to liberation, and dykes
are here… to set the world free.
Sapphic love heals us.
Us women.
Cisgender and transgender
women.
It heals us from the
trauma of patriarchy.
The marginalizing.
The containment.
The — you should be like this
kind of stuff.
We’ll be however we want to be
together, woman to woman,
in this space.
It it is sweet and kind.
Non-judgmental.
It’s a safe space,
a tender space,
my ladies.
God, my fellow ladies.
This chest to chest stuff.
This lips to lips stuff.
This hard stuff.
This soft stuff.
This trustful stuff.
It heals.
God, it heals.
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.
The Angel fell upon me.
And how she laid across me
she looked like a fallen angel.
So I raised her up, uplifted her.
Her breasts met
the morning light.
God saw this and God created
color.
The blue of day was born.
God gasped, God was overwhelmed.
God gave up.
God gave the colors and the day
back to all of us.
So as the angel breathed out
she shared sacredness with me
and everyone else.
Knowing we together on that
morning had reformed God,
the Angel gave me a dress of
dazzling color
that I wore to
Autumn’s banquet that evening.
She wants me to look like
the changing leafs.
I am a changer and I am
her woman.
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.
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.
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.
Right under the lamplight,
she kissed me right
under the lamplight.
Her arms were big,
they were strong,
they held me right.
Her curled black her
one with the air,
one with my wants,
melting my blood from
leather to lust.
She could turn me over
and over all night long
as her simple frilly girl,
play with my skirt and legs.
As we kissed she trailed
my soft skin
on her fingertips.
The small of my back.
Solid and soft.
Wave in.
Wave crash.
Wave out.
Full moon beaming,
floating,
dominion on high,
coming ‘round clouds.
I gasp. I moan. I gasp.
Tallgrass by the side wavering
in breeze.
My breath.
Her lips.
Her tongue.
She kissed me right under
the lamplight.
Her hand in my hair,
the other on ass.
The moon pulled the light.
The moon pulled the light.
I take my estrogen in the morning
as I prepare for my daily judgment.
The lover who will not commit.
The child who furls at me confusingly.
The parade of exclusions from
cisgender women —
silently they say,
“you’re not one of us”.
Why would I do this?
Terraform my body from a
handsome man to a colorful woman.
Why?
So many things stand against me.
Because I
Because I
Because I
believe in the power and the presence
of femininity.
I feel it in my mind, my body, my blood,
and my soul.
Through the feminine I act,
not the feminine aspiring for the masculine,
lusting for patriarchy’s privilege,
no not through this,
but through the dismantling of privilege
and the appetite for it.
This is the feminine
and it is how we will change this
primitive, primitive world.
And this is why I take my pills.
novamartinpoetry.com 