the ghosts of adolescent memories
preserved like so many
in back lanes
as though no time has passed.
Holding the hand of the girl
who learned fear and compliance
at the hands
of so many entitled jerks
I whisper to her
“I’m here now.”
we can kick ‘em in the shins
to the underground dance party
where our people
in their white singlets, nipples erect, freak flags flying high…”
My ghosts, they smile,
tears in their young wide eyes
as they squeeze my hand
with the certainty they always deserved.
The states were closed to one another
As our hearts lit up
A tiny window opened for us
To sip from true love’s cup
We yearn and strive to feel close
With new laws holding us apart
We both stay home so far away
When home is in each other’s heart
I long for you my darling one,
To feel your arms around me
To hear you whisper to my hair
Of all the things that should be
Hold on my love, and I will too
To the truth of our sweet story
This pain we know is compost
For a garden full of glory
(C) Zoë Xanadu 2021
I told her my news
She sent roses to my door
So then I had more news
To tell my friends
Better than the daily covid update
Follow my career and love-life journal for more recipes
I won’t publish it
Mum, I’m gay,
I texted her.
That’s nice dear.
As in you’ve renamed yourself, or like two poofy men?
Striding through the Autumn morning in my walking shoes
Seeking solace in the beauty outside me
from the rage that churns within
The grey blanket of the pre-dawn sky warms me not,
but offers me great comfort,
with the reassuring reminder that I am
and as expansive as the universe
A blush emerges as the sun comes back from the other side of the world, busy tart
A suggestive apricot, fuzzy and without edges, and with the optimism of Alabama Whitman
“She tastes like a peach”
how truly did I want to taste her mouth
Still I stride, breathing through my swirling truth
And now, somehow, streaks of pink and blue
Audacious as those marine creatures that you think have surely been exaggerated
in the artist’s depiction
I can even forgive my ancestors for believing in sky god
Here under this cracking morning sky, remembering to notice the beauty of the universe.
Mary Oliver eat your heart out!
Savour those juices as they stream down your chin
Rivulets forming in your cleavage invitationally
for another lover
of life to slurp at
Mum, I like to lick life juice off the tits of women poets.
Still I stride, rounding the corner, home comes into view.
And in the valley beyond, down over the town to the west
The sun, my current favourite artist, has invited the morning mist to dance.
My queer little heart opens in bliss.
Life really does love me!
And I love her right back,
most Sapphically indeed.