Let me be like cooling waters. Nourishing and cleansing. Or, let me be like the sun. Warming and large. Let my mystery be like savage mountains. Attractive, despite their danger. Let my Indian feet lead me to safety. May they never side with a smooth-talking cowboy. Let me be like the royal winds. I will carry messages to and from our ancestors. Let me be Joseph’s terrifying scowl. I can say so much, with nothing more than dilating pupils. Let me be the beekeeping queen, rationing out honey to bags of bones.
Men say, oh darling, come wrap your legs around my waist. Many have, I swear it, and I write it on the walls. These straps of mine, they tie things together so well. Them to me, me to them.
Nothing is to be of use, when veins are spurting out their life. We’ll spend our lives swimming in someone else’s blood.
Someone is playing the harp. What goddess has fallen from Mount Olympus tonight? It is out of fashion, and out of place. Pluck those strings, and tell your story, crooked soul.