Love This {poem}

“Love this,” she whispers
as her voice twangs the strings
that run from my
to the

“Love this,” she whispers
as the mosquitoes find their way
my fingers
longing to suck me dry –
(Become the desert).

“Love this,” she whispers
as my ligaments stretch
to open old pathways.

“Did you forget,” she questions,
“did you forget that you saw
your old wounds
come alive?”

She tells me
“I am with you always”
and yet I yearn for the
cooling space
provided in the
of her absence.

She grabs ahold of my shoulders,
and redirects me
from North
to West –
Her whisper comes, close to my ear;
“Love this.”

Weaving her tale on
beams of delectable orange light
she gifts me the knowledge
of path (present and future),
and days later speaks to me
via one of her sons;
“Your confusion is not pathology.
It is path.”
(Love this).

I feel her deep in my brain,
stirring my big, black cauldron pot.
“Sexual alchemy,” she says,
and I think of the
lilac robes
of that which came to bed with me
in the night.

She held me close,
protecting and allowing
and she, grandmother,
she was not quite crone
but nonetheless
here to guide me on.

“Love this,” she had said with her eyes
as I struggled to find my words;
“Love this,” she whispered,
and I poured myself into her –
baring my beating, raw and tender heart
to another
through her
(I thank God)
she has come for me.

“Love this,” you whisper
as piece by piece
you dissapate
and I find solace
in the rhythm of the tides –
for it is through them
that I shall

Love, this.


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