Sunday, May 7, 2017

find me the ancient spell
that makes a husband of a man
who can love a crone

the one who holds
the alchemy to understand
now is not the time
for florals and polka-dots
but for nipples that have suckled
the future generations
and bellies that conceal
their wombs stretched out by love
naked and dancing
beneath the moon

find me the one who knows
there is dangerous and vulgar magic
between the lips
and between the hips
of a woman far past
the visual of her long dead

because my vanities and sanities
and apologies
are all drowned
in oceans of where I couldn't belong
but had to learn to swim

and now I've found my solid ground
these roots run deep deep down
though still the girl can weep
the memory of saltwater
for hours or for days

but the woman can also laugh
her magic too
just as manic as the wind
and wide awake for days
just to be in love
with what it is to be alive

find me the man
with nothing left
to teach the girl
and I will be his crone
and student
and inspiration
and in the dark
his maiden who forgets
that younger women are mostly made
of the modest and the shy

it should not take a woman
so many years to be full grown
and so many sacrifices
of the suppleness and glow
to stand before a mirror
and see her beauty
between the sagging lines

but I will cast a spell
to find the looking glass
that sees the secrets that I see
and I will name him Eight
then tell him back the secret
he maybe does not know
that the power in a prophet
is to understand the truth
of what it is to love
and not to claim or conquer
the flesh of woman
nor the earth

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