Love As A First Time Lesbian

Sometimes there’s love.
Sometimes it goes away.
Sometimes I’m waiting again.
Sometimes I try another day.

Sometimes I return.
Sometimes I stay.
Sometimes the sex
makes my mind a spiritual kind of place.

Sometimes there’s madness.
Sometimes it’s divine.
Sometimes there’s hurt.
Sometimes it’s just fine.

Sometimes I lose my faith.
Sometimes I have to pray.
Though always I know I’m gay.
And always I can’t let go,
as weak or strong that is
to admit to say.

Yeah, this love is weak and strong.
There’s no veneer.
No going through the motions.
Yes, there’s weak.
And there’s also strong.
Right here all along.
This ain’t no hetero kind of nonsense,
trying to keep up appearances for
society or family.

This love is weak and strong.
Grab my wrists babe, lead me on.

[For National Poetry Month, why not celebrate, shine light on, and be real about Sapphic love? 🤷🏻‍♀️]

Birds Of Spring

Why do the birds of Spring
sing louder and gather up
in flirtatious throngs
when in the northern woods
I play alternative pop music loudly
in my humble cabin
and dance like the womanly waves
of the nearby green ocean?

Are the birds of Spring gay?
Is Spring gay?
Budding and blooming,
the nipples on my chest.
Is the universe queer?
Scientists will affirm this
in their scholarly toil between
the gradients.

I dance anyways.
I still dance.
I dance away the afternoon.
I am gay.
And I am here.
The birds of Spring come and sing.

Better Than I Do

I thought it was really cute
watching you crush on King Princess
at the concert the other night.

And even though
we’re happily monogamous
from my side of things
you have a free pass
should the two of you
ever have the chance to
sleep with each other.
If that ends up happening,
I’m curious if they’ll end up
eating your pu$$y better than I do.
I mean, if they like eating pu$$y
as much as they sing about,
they’ll be in heaven with yours;
it is that much of a god damn godsend
delicious, delightful, and so
wonderfully textural,
pristine, blissful,
fresh, spring morning pu$$y.
It tastes as beautiful as you look,
with your smooth, velvety eyelids,
crystalline blue eyes,
presentful gaze,
impeccable skin and succulent lips.
Anyhow,
if they do end up eating your pu$$y
better than I do,
then I look forward to knowing
you felt incredible
and also listening and learning
what I might be able to modify
in order to make our experience
generally blissful.

Broken Flower

I’m just a broken flower, Mama.
I don’t have a penis or a
vagina, Daddy.
Satellites fly over my head.
Humanity triumphs.
I just need love.
What is love?
I don’t deserve love.
Yes, I’m trans.
Are you dating, then?
Yes, I’m dating.
Open and a free-for-all.
Do you suck dick?
No. I eat pussy.

When You Kiss Me

When you kiss me,
yes, it’s luscious, succulent, sensual,
calming, inspiring, breathtaking.
But what I haven’t said
is that when you kiss me
I can see that kiss on my or your
deathbed,
if we get that chance.
It seems to fit there.
And I’ve never felt or seen
anyone’s kiss in that manner.
So I’m not sure exactly what to call it
when I feel that when we kiss.
I guess that’s what I’ll call this poem.
I’ve never known love where
I could or wanted to see
myself or the other person
in elderly life or terminally ill,
but for some reason I have with you.
I don’t know why, I just have.
I mean, I know why I never experienced
this before.
It is, or was, called fear of love.
But I don’t know why now,
I’m experiencing it with you.
Maybe you know?

Wiring Around My Heart

In the pet store
two hours after we had sex
a wry smile breaks on my face.
I think about savoring and tasting,
taking in your pussy and your soul,
your moans that release
your reflexes of control
for a moment.
It’s a real pleasure to do that to you.
I can still taste you in my mouth,
breathe you in my nose.
Just the thought of it.
eases my blood pressure,
makes me feel like I’m on vacation.
It rivets my soul.
Makes me know that I’m a woman.
To be a woman is soulful.
Now on aisle twelve
I grab the prescription food
for my sixteen year old
gray-blue kitty cat.
I’m a good cat mom.
I love that little fucker so much.
The two of you
have wiring all around my heart.

Lesbian Kiss In Capitalism

God, your lips.
Wait, not that “god”.

Just your lips.

In lesbian love
with each other,
ripped that masculinity
from the Aegean
in ancient times,
they did
on some days, in some regions.

Then why not now?

Why can’t the air be ours?

Or why not the fruit trees by the
weathered windows from Naples?

Why is winter always judged?

Your lips do this thing to me
when the hearth fire burns,
endless rains fall from the sky,
and my bones feel cold, mineral,
and hollow.

Your lips; slain, succulent and laid out
in my mind across everyday for
the rest of living,
similar to sunrises
in so many collected mortal eons.
They uplift a TV repair shop
in Oregon,
upholding what must be heaven.

They turn from smooth beige
and melt into translucent metal.
Do they?
They do.
They melt my flower.

Become Blues Singer

God asked me
one day when Peter was off in the fields
enduring mosquito bites,
“Why don’t you fall in love with men?”
And I answered,
“Because, men are not made in your image.

Women are.”

I taught God a lesson.
Now he brings wedding gifts,
turtledoves,
to the lesbian weddings.
I bring silk and tongue in the failure
of my appearance.
And then I walk off, continue to walk with
a head of brown hair and
brown facial hair
and brown pubic hair.

Now, God has taught me a lesson.
I must become blues singer,

love my guitar.

The Greens Of Prolmama

The Greens Of Prolmama
that place by the sunglasses store on Sunset Blvd
has helped a lot of cancer survivors get that way
You’ve been that way with your teeth
to stop and turn to the mountain
it makes us look that way
the way we look when there’s just too much
Cowboys riding into the future from the past on a spaceship
or an ion generation device
They make nice clothing at least for the persons who want
to look like that
The Greens infuse my chest cavity
so I look up to see Andromeda’s aftermath
and the aftermath is ignored by all the mammals and the reptiles
unless there’s fire
we’re then drawn outward
to a journey that takes a long long time
I could count the plastic in the toy store
or a municipal dump all for an afternoon to remember now
when we kissed as men reading the Bible

 

Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin