Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
What if men had vaginas?
What if women had penises?
What if?
What if?
What if?
They do.
They do.
They do.
Right here
on this sacred earth,
where we will conquer hate
and men with vaginas
and women with penises
will be loved and accepted
… by even the transphobic
gay men and gay women
and also the hateful Christians.
She is the first lesbian witch
who I have known.
Who I have loved.
Wanted very much so.
But I will never touch her.
For principle.
For reasons.
For learnings.
For loving my soul.
For loving
her soul and
our soul.
This soul.
The perimeter is everything.
Cast out everywhere.
Radiation. Reverberance.
Joy. Patience.
Acceptance how things are.
This is the kind of magic
that a lesbian witch weaves.
This is a spiritual love poem
that only high Sapphic love
could write.
So there, now I touch all
the women I love
… so holy, holy, holy.
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.
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.
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.
In a hotel room in Albuquerque
I wake up
in the middle of the night
to various things you said
speaking in my mind,
like a radio tuning in…
Initially there is static,
my mind is groggy,
the words are unclear,
but soon the more into
consciousness I awake
I can clearly hear:
“Women don’t have penises.”
“Women don’t dance like that.”
“Women don’t have those kind
of thoughts.”
“A woman wouldn’t wear that.”
“I don’t think women do things
like that.”
Then I get up.
Go into the stale bathroom of
my hotel room.
Grab my pink metal tweezers
and continue my tenacious ritual
of plucking out the remnants of
my beard hair, one by one,
as I stand there for an hour
underneath the nauseating
fluorescent lighting,
plucking probably 800 hairs
and plotting out my plan to
move to Berlin to become a
Sapphic lesbian, woman-only,
sensual and tender,
feminist healer prostitute.
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.
His name was Ripcord
(well, something similar)
and yes, HE was a lesbian.
I met him in a place in Dallas
I should not have been.
He liked the flirty skirt I was
wearing and he said he liked
my dark eyes and my fit, but
feminine figure.
We talked about very gay stuff
together.
He talked about how big his clit
was.
I said I’d loved a couple women like that;
one was femme,
the other – more a chapstick lesbian.
He said he used the male pronouns
because he wanted to f@&k with
the patriarchy.
I told him I really liked that.
I’m not going to lie,
I really wanted him,
so I got his number.
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.
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