For all the woman who've ever been subjected to the biblical shaming that runs rampant in our culture: red is the new white. Amen.
Shame waves lap at the shores of her bed
while her toes compose lines in the sand.
The evening’s actions start pricking her skin
as the sandman slips back into dream.
She did nothing “wrong” — not a single soul kissed,
and her tongue barely slithered in speaking.
Whispers of vapors remain in her veins
like a fog clinging to dawn.
--
It is fall and the apples are ready for picking.
The Red Delicious ripens early, bruises easy.
The Ginger Gold is slow to brown,
and Pink Ladies make a sweet sauce.
Blushing Goldens keep very well,
and Grannies are achingly tart.
The Empire is sweetest plucked right off the tree,
and Liberty tastes best after storage.
--
Who tamed and so named our wild fruits?
In the orchard we dance with no shoes on.
We slip and slide
in the sauce of the fallen
that smash under foot
and smush between toes
while we reach overhead
for those whole holy flames
burning bright on the branches,
where leaves wait for darkness to breathe in.
Laughing aloud — with our baskets now brimming --
we reclaim the bounty of harvest.
We pray mouth to mouth, skin to skin, flesh to flesh:
faithful fruit, she is birthed from the flower.
--
Holy Mary, Mother of God...
this body is pilgrimage territory.
--
Dawn. A red dawn. A ripe hue, a new story.
The shadows cast over the land falls away,
virgin tide washes clear all our lines in the sand,
and morning fog lifts as red dawn licks away
yesterday's fabled horizon.
while her toes compose lines in the sand.
The evening’s actions start pricking her skin
as the sandman slips back into dream.
She did nothing “wrong” — not a single soul kissed,
and her tongue barely slithered in speaking.
Whispers of vapors remain in her veins
like a fog clinging to dawn.
--
It is fall and the apples are ready for picking.
The Red Delicious ripens early, bruises easy.
The Ginger Gold is slow to brown,
and Pink Ladies make a sweet sauce.
Blushing Goldens keep very well,
and Grannies are achingly tart.
The Empire is sweetest plucked right off the tree,
and Liberty tastes best after storage.
--
Who tamed and so named our wild fruits?
In the orchard we dance with no shoes on.
We slip and slide
in the sauce of the fallen
that smash under foot
and smush between toes
while we reach overhead
for those whole holy flames
burning bright on the branches,
where leaves wait for darkness to breathe in.
Laughing aloud — with our baskets now brimming --
we reclaim the bounty of harvest.
We pray mouth to mouth, skin to skin, flesh to flesh:
faithful fruit, she is birthed from the flower.
--
Holy Mary, Mother of God...
this body is pilgrimage territory.
--
Dawn. A red dawn. A ripe hue, a new story.
The shadows cast over the land falls away,
virgin tide washes clear all our lines in the sand,
and morning fog lifts as red dawn licks away
yesterday's fabled horizon.