Poetry from Nova Martin – America's favorite transwoman feminist lesbian druidess poet
A handy dyke
is a joy for a femme.
It doesn’t matter if that
handy dyke
is butch, chapstick,
femme herself
or whatever else.
She, this handy dyke,
relieves something for
the lone femme
that the lone femme is unable
to do, live, or achieve herself.
That is why she’s handy.
The handy dyke can do
what the femme cannot.
In the shower in my hotel room
in Bangkok,
I listen to The Flaming Lips
“In The Morning Of The Magicians”.
It’s morning here and I’m getting
prepared to meet the CEO of
my company in an hour.
As the soft, warm water pours
down my silky skin,
and as I feel the song more and
more,
I begin to daydream of a woman
whom I’m falling in love with.
I start imagining how incredible
it would be to wake up with them
on a morning, every morning.
Then I just start crying out of joy
and tenderness.
Deep, soulful crying.
It’s like I can’t believe this
would be possible,
maybe not with the woman I was
daydreaming of.
I still believe morning moments
like that will happen.
I feel the depth, joy, and pain
of the future and of waiting for
the future,
and am thankful for
that spiritual moment in the shower
with that song.
My love, she brings me violets
from her garden.
They wither and hang on.
She sneaks around her husband
to kiss me on the side street
behind the bar.
My fk, she steals away from her
girlfriend around midnight
once a week.
She used to be my love,
but now we just fck.
She knows about my new love and
her heart aches a little cuz she knows
I’ll always be loved somewhere
in between.
A transwoman halfway between
commitment and a promise,
half a human to most people,
except the few women who let me
exist with their breaths,
then I am whole only cuz
the two of us are
whole together,
holding each other’s corporeal
souls.
They know me more than
halfway
then.
They believe they are alive
in ways they’ve never lived.
Sometimes I just wanna be fkd.
Just wanna be laid back naked
with my tits bouncing around,
her on top
and her tits hanging out
freely and swinging,
hands clutched together,
knuckles locked to knuckles,
her clxt swollen, hard, and huge,
pounding my perineum
til she cums…
til she cums
and I lose my breath,
lost in my mind,
lost in my soul,
lost in the ocean of the universal soul,
evicerated in desire,
renewed and reborn through
love, lust, and trust.
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.
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.
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.
The water you last drank from
remains
by my bed.
I will leave it there
as I let go of you
over this next season of my life.
It will evaporate,
turn to air,
and travel very far from here
over the next million years.
And that was
always going to happen to us
as well.
Though it was quite miraculous
how the infinite configurations
placed us together in this
infinite ocean,
soul to soul,
body to body,
soft skin lain on soft skin
in morning sunshine,
vaporous breathing to the
heavens
where once upon a time
you had reached for
that water you last drank from
for the final time
in the aftermath of something,
something riveting, tumultuous,
healing, and laid bare for
the other to see.
I see now and look over at
what will be gone soon,
what will be gone as Autumn
and the hearth fires start up
again.
While taxiing on the runway
for our flight to Mexico,
you sitting two rows behind me,
my eyes filled with tears
as I simultaneously thought
of the love here now
growing between you and I
and also my heartbreak and loss
from an abortion five years ago.
That child would be five years old today.
I believe I carry her soul in my heart and body
as I live out my time on earth.
When I conceived her
in the middle of
a cold Michigan winter night
a light burst forth in my mind.
That light continues to
burst out of me
in all ways, in everything I do.
Traveling along the runway
I saw wildflowers growing
from weeds,
plastic bags shredded in the barb wire
of the airport fencing,
and an ambulance
rushing someone away
on a secret emergency airport road.
Once we caught flight,
I looked back and saw a glimpse
of your blue eyes
looking out into the blue skies
and I said to myself,
“Oh, here we are”.
I have such pussy fever
but I am loyal.
So many passing women,
in all their infinitely
different energies and beauties,
turn into constellations
that mesmerize me and
I dream beneath their skies,
dreaming deep and soulful breaths
for fleeting, passing moments.
This woman with thick arms.
This one with an afro.
This one who speaks with conviction.
This one speaking soft and cool.
This one with perfect hips.
This one with rose-carved lips.
This is a new season for me.
An era with new eyes.
With the eyes of a woman now
I believe in and lust women
more than ever before.
Believe all that we have to live for.
I love and lust in Technicolor now.
So you, my suave faced, buxom love,
you get the best version of me.
The best I’ve ever been.
The dreamiest of my heart
and the loveliest of my love.
I’ve told you this before.
This is why I eat your pussy
as if you and I are in heaven.
I see you sad, I see you angry.
I see you amused AND forthright.
Broken AND driven.
Exhausted AND sultry.
I want you AND THEN I want you.
Perfect FOR me. Humanly imperfect.
Tender and blue eyed,
honey kissed nipples.
Speaking at a conference.
Folding laundry.
Bringing me a bagel.
I love and lust in Technicolor now.
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