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
tremblings.
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
desperation,
determined in the vowels and stitching of
language,
How could there have ever been
another way for me?