Your skin smells of 

travels and traversity,

I’m not sure if my

eyesight (mindshight) is skewed or

if you truly do fit

some mold of venture

and abandon.

I know we meet there.

Under a canopy of whim,

I let you swirl me 

across a wooden dance floor and

I placed you in the reality of pitching

a tent among golden leaves,

they rained on you and

you took the time 

to worship them.

I’ve been told my whole

life-in pews, and

pedestals, and poundings

how utterly selfish it is to ask 

for more.

And yet, I’ve dared to ask

with trepidation and with 


Sure, I am a keeper of culture

and motherhood afterall,

these keys leave traces of rust

on my fingertips and lips,

I know that I have

spoken in the desert,

wrestled  worthy angels

because I taste sand 

and grit in my teeth.

I have asked for more still,

it is less demand than 


determined in the vowels and stitching of 


How could there have ever been 

another way for me?