Our Mother's Ideology

I love the way the ocean 

looks like the curves of your thighs, 
How it ripples the same way your
fingers thread through my hair. 
The breeze croons sweet 'n salty 
nothings as you whisper in my ear,
sea shells and sirens' calls intertwined.

I love the way the mountains
remain untouched by men.
Virgins in their own right, do their
stones ache the same way mine do,
Or does the lack of carnal knowledge 
blanket their cavities in forest greens
and pinewood, sun-kissed tans.

I love the way the rivers 
seek out paths of least resistance.
Demanding attention only in extremes
but largely gliding around the hearts
and desires of the lone wolf,
Providing sustenance and a guiding path,
only asking for existence in return. 

I love the way the deserts
are harsh and cool in their dreams,
Never yearning for rain to release them
from an unwavering, floating gold. 
Their sheriffs perched passively, 
arms waving scents of prickly pears only
punishing those who venture too close.

I love the way our mother
operates in only psychedelic hues, 
dressing herself in the finest of
lavenders and plums, befitting royalty. 
Lovely and kind, understanding of her 
own self-worth and timelessly patient.

Over Easy

They say an ostrich egg can withstand

herculean amounts of pressure... that you
can literally, figuratively tread heavily with
shoes, without socks, with laces as unraveled
as the way that I feel when you pull me into 
your arms and your warmth and your eyes. 

But if you were to take something as simple
or as "innocent" as a spoon, with a tap you 
can shatter the shell protecting what's inside. 
You can pretend that it's a holy union but 
at the end of the night you'll find yourself
worshipping pagan idols and Tom Collins. 

We talked about a world in which memories
of past lives competed with the present, 
but if that night was a gift I am unsure if
I want to return to sender or nestle it in 
the sweaty palm of my hand, the one tucked
into a feathered glove, when I pulled you into
my arms and my warmth and my eyes. 

Snowflakes

At what point does a claim of empathy turn 

into a hollow statement full to the brim 
with half truths and a lack of self awareness.
And at what point must you admit that 
granting the benefit of the doubt 
can only extend so far as a descriptor. 
Humans seek food, shelter and companionship, 
not always in that order but still paraded as the
holy trifecta satisfying need, want, and lust. 

A self-critical eye behind a monocle can easily 
revert to binoculars looking so far beyond 
the horizon they fail to see the beauty in the 
perfection and flaws of the immediate view. 
When the blanket of privilege is removed and 
your needs are no longer attended to, 
can you take comfort in the gracious kindness
of the strangers who surround you?
The ones who owe you nothing and patiently 
smile while you demand everything. 

It is like a petulant child learning for the first time
the messages of individuality recited every evening, 
as a bedtime prayer are not relevant, do not resonate.
But what is a claim if not a self perception laced with
a poisonous conviction and a subscription to alienation?

Textbook Trauma

They say history is written by the victors, 

but her story is told over cups of chai
flavored with cultural appropriation 
and garnished with coconut shavings. 
It's told with wide eyed animation and
through the invisible scars of abuse, 
captured in a textbook nestled in 
trembling hands ... the ones they 
forced her to use to wrap it all up
in crumpled brown paper bags and bows.

(Fucking) Scruffy Nerfherders

You stretch my heart, glittery sky blue silly putty 

wrapped around your fingers, the ones that 
glide around the curves of my body, and drum 
to the beat of, "you're killing me, little one."

It starts with a simple fold like 
the way my body molds to yours,
in your grizzly brown bear embrace. 
It ends by morphing into a moonlit howl,
tantalizing me with cinnamon eyes. 

When I was twelve I played with silly putty
in the back of a safe haven, an escape, a trap,
drowning out the bass of my pains with the
thinnest of filters to block out the noise.
The trips ended but nothing was ever the same, 
you can't remove wrinkles and thumbprints.

I don't always feel beautiful but
you sure are a beast and does she
know what you text me, the way you 
walk that line between an enticing rose
in a glass case and a heart in a steel cage.

The thing you're forgetting about silly putty
is that malleability is not autonomous from scars, 
the deeply etched lines that reflect how soiled people 
can become when you toy with their emotions. 

Too Busy Growing Up

They told me I could be anything when I grew up, so I became a woman.

The curves of my body became an affront to their sensibilities, my intellect challenged their preconceived notions, my passion yielded a blaze that threatened their comfort, and my value was diminished. Today, I'm with her. I'm with those who fought for my right to vote, and I'm with those who continue to fight for equity. 

They told me I could be anything when I grew up, so I became a woman.