lesbian poetry

JANE BARNES

HOW IT STARTS
Know how it starts? she leaves her
watch on your bedside table and you
leave a shirt at her house then
you wear a jacket of hers home in the
rain and she starts to keep a T shirt in your bureau just in case then it's
two toothbrushes and backup wheat germ and kelp because she doesn't eat
wheat germ and you don't eat kelp and then
you make a corner for some of her
things and you begin to think of the
end of her couch as your end of the
couch and after that you might as well
just throw in the towel

THE WIND/DOOR (for L.)
Love, you hide in my breast like Oh!
I remember when I first saw you, I shouted,
said, Look out that window! But I didn't
know you were the window just then.
Didn't know I'd already soared through it.

When we sit in the kitchen at night together,
I can tell you the exact moment when I think
if I never live another minute it won't matter,
I feel such joy. Tonight [when] you stood up
and, folding your napkin, said, Coffee, Love?

ELLEN BASS

TO PRAISE
I want to praise bodies
nerves and synapses
the impulse that travels the spine
   like fish darting

I want to praise the mouth
that warm wet lair where the tongue reclines
and the tongue, roused
   slithering a cool path

I want to praise hands
those architects that create us anew
fingers, cartographers, revealing
   who we can become
and palms, cupped priestesses
   worshiping the long slow curve

I want to praise muscle
and the heart, that flamboyant champion
   with its insistent pelting like
   tropical rain

Hair, the sweep of it
   a breeze

and feet, arch taut
   stretching like cats

I want to praise the face, engraved
like a riverbed; it breaks like morning
   like a piñata

Breasts, cornucopia
nipples that jump up, gleeful
   like a child greeting the day

and clitoris, shimmering
a huge tender pearl
   in that succulent oyster

I want to praise the love cries
sharp, brilliant as ice
and the roar that swells in the lungs
   like an avalanche

I want to praise the gush, the hot
spring thaw of it, the rivers
   wild with it

Bodies, our extravagant bodies

And I want to praise you, how you have
lavished yours
upon mine
   until I want to praise

ROBIN BECKER

MORNING POEM
Listen. It's morning. Soon I'll see your hand reach for my watch, the water will agitate in the kettle, but listen. Traffic. I want your dreams first. And to slide my leg beneath yours before the day opens. Wait. We slept late. You'll be moody, the phone will ring, someone wanting something. Let me put my hands in your hair. Who I was last night I would be again. This is how the future holds me, how depression wakes with us; my body shelters it. Let me put my head on your breast. I know nothing lasts. I would try to hold you back, not out of meanness but fear. Oh my practical, my worldly-wise. You know how the body falters, falls in on itself. Tell me that we will never want from each other what we cannot have. Lie. It's morning.

SALLY BELLEROSE

MARRIED LADIES HAVE SEX IN THE BATHROOM
We did it everywhere.
We were middle-aged women
with middle-aged husbands
and school-aged boy children.

(…)

We did it with bodies so tired,
hearts so heavy,
that doin' it was the last thing
on our minds.
Still, something greedy whispered,
get it while you can girls,
because you never know
if or when
you're gonna get again.

We did it and called it empowerment,
lust,
avarice,
and adultery.
We dared man or nature
to deny that doin' it
was anything but sacred.

We flaunted.
We hid.
Tense and tangled,
sometimes we forgot
when to run, when to taunt.

We stopped.
Caught our breaths, confronted.
Like dogs in heat, we fought.
Our lives uprooted,
recovered to fight,
to blame some more.

In the end
we cared for ourselves
enough to stay
alive, in this world, together.

And a year, and a year,
and the years go by.
Less and less
we press each other.

Still we love.
But oh the sex.
It's never been the same.
Life on the edge is an addiction.
Honest life is pleasant, better, definitely better,
but so damned tame.

BECKY BIRTHA

MY NEXT LOVER
My next lover will have a car
maybe a Mercedes.
She won't expect me to bicycle
anywhere!

If we're going to a family wedding
an awards dinner or
a program in the black community on a
Sunday afternoon
where I'm the keynote speaker—
she'll wear a skirt.

My next lover will love kids.
She might even have one or two
of her own. In any case
she'll be crazy about mine.
She'll be thrilled to babysit
when I have to go out of town
even if it's for a month.

My next lover will have something she's
impassioned about and obsessed with
besides me.
There'll be times when she can't wait to
get back to whatever she's
creating. There'll be whole weekends
when she doesn't care
what I do, and won't even notice
if we haven't made love.

But my next lover will always be
available for me.
Whenever I'm ready
her timing will be perfect.

My next lover will be wild about
communication.
When I ask her what's wrong
she'll come out with more than
two syllables.
My next lover will never give up on us.
She'll believe in couples therapy.
If we reach a point where the whole thing
just isn't working anymore—
she'll change.

My next lover can flirt with whomever she likes.
We'll both know it's not serious.
And while many women will probably want her
my next lover will want to stay with me.
She'll know she'll never get
a better offer.

MARGARET CARDEA BLACK

BURYING THE CAT
You write to say you love me, to say
I loved you; to tell me that even now
If I called your name you would come back:
To say you are empty, to say you want me,
That I want you-which is all true.

But, tonight, I am a grave digger,
Filling a small black hole with leaves,
With leaf-mold, with my cat, who is cold.

If I answered your letter I would say
To you that limitless love sets limits;
That though I miss your mouth on mine,
This emptiness in which I find myself is
Filling and good, that I am satisfied
In the way that a cat is satisfied
With its own solitude. I would tell you
That this grave I here fill is not the
Ultimate black hole, but is a cradle,
Cat-size, a bed; that the stone I lay
At its head says I am not forgetful,
That love lives on. I would remind you
Of what you already know, that grief
Is real and must be suffered, that wish
And deed are not the same. I would say
I want you— and will not call your name.

NANCY BOUTILIER

BECAUSE THEY ARE MINE
I am not a man
trapped in a woman's body,
but a woman held prisoner
in a world
expecting me to fit
into uncomfortable shoes
and walk with a certain swing of the hips
along roads that lead to alien pastures.
Call it persperation or sweat,
but know that it is wet, just the same.
My glow is laced
with grit and grese
from the front axel
It's my car,
so I fix it,
and then I fix
dinner
and wash the laundry,
happy to hang her sweaters and socks to dry.
When I have time,
I alternate her underwear on the line
with mine,
knowing that nobody cares but me.
I have only myself to please,
and I enjoy tinkering, creating, rebuilding.
I love the songs that spin from my bicycle
after ive freshly packed the bearing
the melody my cat purrs when I stroke
the thick fur surrounding his ears.
I love the smell that kicks
when my chain saw chews pine
as much as a fresh cut of roses.
I rock with pleasure
at the silent rhythms my body finds
shoveling snow, walking in sand,
and breathing beside the woman I love.
I revel in the salty taste of sweat
handing from my upper lip
when my work demands it.
All responses are womanly
because they are mine.
I have only myself to please,
and it pleases me to love her.

JAYNE RELAFORD BROWN

AS YOU FLY TO CHICAGO: A CONFESSION (for Janice)
Before you left, I bought another chain
so your quartz ornament could pendant down
between your breasts,weight the hollow place
I like to lay my hand to calm your breath.

I know I often give you what I need.
And now you're gone, and I'm a wishbone sprung,
an unhinged sternum with its ribs all slipped
and disengaged, the flopping heart uncaged.

I wander like I'm lost around our house,
from desk to yard to empty bed and back
—which means the joke's on me when I admit
that I could hardly wait for you to leave.

I saw a part of me who would emerge
in solitude: the hard-edged writer gone
too flaccid from the comforts of your love,
who longed to keen and howl about the house

and rattle back to skeletal remains
of pain's incisive easy eloquence,
instead of groping to articulate
the brinkless sloppy liquid of our love.

Janice, remember diagrams we drew
in grade school, shading in to show how deep
two circles intersect? I'm scared to find
how far you've cast yourself across my life.

If our relationship is like two spheres
that deeply overlap, am I eclipsed,
the part that's "us" what love has penciled in,
so when you leave I'm like a bitten moon?

We both run cringing at the sound of "wife,"
its specter draped with aprons, dresses, men. But I need words to show I mean to stay,
to say how very deep in me you spin.

Fly back to me, and lay your palm against
this heart that spills itself in search of you.
Your hand completes the line that marks my edge
and lets me recognize my life's own breath.

SKYLIGHT
Lie here, you say:
The clouds are sailing by.
The wind's picked up.

Careful not to touch, I stretch
along your body, place my head
a fraction of an inch from yours

inside the small square
of light-charged air
that heats your comforter.

Look up, you murmur,
See the way they slide?
I watch, grow dizzy with the pace

as white silks slip across
the turquoise frame, as your cool breath
moves moist against my ear.

This is where I love
to lie and dream, you say. And here's
the moment I could tell you

I've been dreaming too, of you,
or simply turn my face
and meet your lips,

the moment I could trust
I understand your hints,
and why you've brought me
to this place.

And if I kissed you
softly as a cloud,
traveled over you
as slowly as a mist,

and entered you
as gentle as a fog,
would I be
as welcome as a rain?

Would you lie still,
watch sky as if I
wasn't touching you?
Would you run?

Or would you sigh,
so glad to have
the waiting done,
and turn to me,

and could we two,
together, gather
like a storm?

TWO SONGS FOR TOUCH

I. Sleeping with You
Tenderest: your soft stroked
    cheek beside my breast,
my kiss there. Then you stretch
    and let me tumble,
      nestled, toward your chest.

Your palm supports my neck
    and I remember
how to float again, to let
    the body rest and trust
      this water, willingness.

You tug on me as surely
    as a newborn's suck
knots up the womb again,
    beloved draw that rakes
      and heals old emptiness.

II. Skin
Hands to cup a chin and cheek,
Lips to trace a nape of neck,

Hips to fit a belly's curve,
Words to witness what we have.

I used to say A pillow pressed
against my chest will pass for touch.

But now to press along your spine,
reach over you and cup your breast—

I'll never know a better rest.

ANDREA R. CANAAN

GIRLFRIENDS
You know, the kind of woman friend you
can be a girl with.
You know what I mean a woman you giggle
with one minute and can be dead serious
the next.
The kind of friend that you can be a bitch
with and she thinks that you were being
a bitch just then, and tells you so.
The kind of friend that you usually
tell all to and when you forget to tell
her some secret that you have been holding
and casually mention it to her, you are
surprised that you hadn't told her.
You know, the kind of friend that you can
go out with and it's not always dutch.
The kind of woman friend that, you
play with and sleep with and go to
the movies with and gossip half the day
or night with and argue politics with and
never agree yet always agree with ... you know?
The kind of friend that you keep secrets
for and with and can be P.I. with, in fact
you both insist upon it.
I mean the kind of friend that you laugh
and cry with over some woman breaking your
heart even though this is the fourth time
this year it's happened, and she will hold
you and let you wail
just like it was the very first time your
heart was ever broken.
The kind of woman that will leave
no stone unturned to find out why she hurt
your feelings even if she didn't mean to and
especially if she did.
The kind of friend that you will accept
an apology from graciously even when you feel
now that you might have been being hyper
sensitive that day and revel in the knowing
that someone cares so much how you feel and
you don't have to worry about monogamy or
polygamy or which side of the bed is yours
or nothing.
The kind of woman friend that you can tell
how your lover done you so wrong and she
doesn't get mad when you don't do all those
things you swore you would.
The kind of friend that you can get
mad with or strongly disagree with or lose
it with and she will not give up on you
or stop loving you.
The kind of friend that will give
you space to fall in love even though your
new affair is taking the spontaneity out
of her being able to pop over or to
call you late about some small bit of
info to hear your voice and be assured
about some fear that you can not
yet name.
The kind of friend that doesn't get mad
until she has not seen or heard from you
for two solid weeks and then she comes
over or calls and cusses your ass out for days
and then you go out for an ice cream cone.
I mean the kind of friend that stays mad
with the people that fuck over you long
after you have forgiven them.
The kind of friend that
allows you to wallow in self pity for
just so long and then gives you a swift
kick.
The kind of friend that close or far apart
she will be there for you, the distance wiped
away instantly to meet some outside enemy or
trouble.
I mean the kind of woman who always honors
what is private and vulnerable for you.

You know, I mean girlfriends.

LORI CARDONA

NOTE TO MY LOVER'S BROTHER
There is a tense, exquisite moment
after our good-night kiss
and before the "I love you"
when I wait

Suspended
my breath held in
I find myself in so much love
and loving that good-night kiss

Maybe there will be another
and another after that
maybe we'll begin to touch
I wait to follow her lead

I used to push impatiently
I used to question why
I tried to understand her pain
as she switched from hot to warm

My sweet and tender lover
she can only let go
when she's free to let go
and I love her even more

So now the wait is fine with me
I've learned to be trustworthy
I've learned to truly feel and see
I've learned to understand

The reward is great
as my heart expands
it's better than my dreams
because I can hold back

although you did not
I will not push her
you've done that enough
I will not use her

You've already used
she is my life, my love, my heart
I will still be here
when all she sees is me

And you are a nightmare forgotten

CHERYL CLARKE

BUTTONS
I wanted to unbutton
every piece of your clothing
which was all buttons
from that silk shirt
down to the crotch of that gaberdine skirt.
My buttons too:
my jeans brass-button up,
my shirt has six shell buttons,
my camisole has three tiny ones.
This restaurant is in my way
when I want to be unbuttoned and unbuttoning.
Can't you tell?
To do it now.
To reach across the bread.
To start unbuttoning.
My arms so long.
My fingers faster than the eye and omnidextrous.
Now, ain't that loving you?

NOTHING
Nothing I wouldn't do for the woman
I sleep with
when nobody satisfy me the way she do.

kiss her in public places
win the lottery
take her in the ass
in a train lavatory
sleep three in a single bed
have a baby
to keep her wanting me.

wear leather underwear
remember my dreams
make plans and schemes
go down on her in front of her
other lover

give my jewelry away
to keep her wanting me.

sell my car
tie her to the bed post and
spank her
lie to my mother
let her watch me fuck my other lover
miss my only sister's wedding
to keep her wanting me.

buy her cocaine
show her the pleasure in danger
bargain
let her dress me in colorful costumes
of low cleavage and slit to the crotch
giving easy access
to keep her wanting me.

Nothing I wouldn't do for the woman
I sleep with
when nobody satisfy me the way she do.

DARCIE

MOMENT
So I'm in her arms and this hug is going to take more than just a lew seconds and my cheek is against her blue silk blouse and I shift my head and my face is against her neck and I inhale is it musk? whatever it's perfect on her feminine and sexy just like she is so sexy and she doesn't even know and that just makes her all the more sexy and I inhale a few more times and my lips tremble against my will and I almost kiss her neck? her cheek? and would she respond and then I could move to her mouth and back to her neck and around to and between her full breasts and down down down down DOWN would she let me? but she seems tired and i don't feel beautiful enough to compete with the tarot card spread she was reading when i came over so when my lips move again against my will I sidetrack them at the last minute by making them say "I should have brought the Incense I made for you" and—
‹the moment breaks›.

So she's in my arms and her cheek is against my blue silk blouse and she shifts her head and her face is against my neck and her hair is in my face and I Inhale is it patchouly? whatever and her lips tremble and is she going to kiss my neck? my cheek? is she going to try to make me forget my tiredness and seduce me away from my tarot cards? and her lips move again and Is she going to kiss me? and she says "I should brought the incense I made for you" and—
‹the moment breaks›.

AMY EDGINGTON

DREAM LOVER
Skin to skin in the bow of your bed,
we drift a river of bliss in no
particular hurry to reach the sea.
This time I cradle your back;
my breath feathers the nape of your neck.
Your breasts are fuller than I'd remembered.
I slide my hand over the unexpected mound of your belly.

I never touched you when you were pregnant.
I was the one you loved before
you married and had three babies.
Now I never see you except in dreams
as regular and vivid as my blood.

You will always be the first woman I loved
without lies, and I'm still in love with the me
who loved you like an animal and a god.
Since then I've been threatened and abused,
I've been loved more kindly and more wisely.

In my waking life I rarely kiss
without thought of consequence.

But in my dreams I lean toward you
in front of lighted windows with
night coming on.
In my dreams we still stroll
hand in hand across the campus,
exciting envy as much as hate,
and our courage never flags.

Once I dreamt we were old, both widows.
Meeting again after thirty years,
I tell you I've been faithful
through a lifetime apart.

LORI FAULKNER

FIRST OF THE MOTORCYCLE POEMS
you

soft in your leather

not quite a

bike dyke

no studs on your jacket

but

oh

those gloves are sinful

long

black

leather

with

zippers

no less

so butch

of you

to have those gloves

so femme

of you

to have those eyes

SECOND OF THE MOTORCYCLE POEMS
At night, in my dreams,
my legs and thighs
spin a cocoon around her
and there is a penis
slender and firm
it slides gently into me
and I hold her there

In daylight
she appears in front of me
leaning against her classic black
BMW motorcycle
leather jacket
denim jeans
on her boy body
raking five
juvenile delinquent fingers
through her short dark hair
she is my teenage guy
in different times
I could be gun moll
to her gangster moves
a cigarette dangles
from her seductive
heart-stopping lips

When I hold her wrists
above her head
and take her with my tongue
the smell of her
strong and wild
as the best acid trip
When I feel the outside curve
of her breasts
soft as my heart melting
at the sight of
her citrine almond eyes
we know the truth together
it's an inside joke
When they call her butch
and rate her high on the scale
I call her my woman
and take what I want.

ADELE GORELICK

VISIT ME
I love it when you come.
Don't stop.

At noon the wind blowing open the door.
I knew it was you.
To enjoy the snow.

To see we were okay.
As before,
When you came as a bird
Fluttering between the front windows
After we buried you under the trees
In Rock Creek Park.

I love it when you come.
Don't stop.

When you first died,
I heard you in sounds:
The cats at Marge and Anne's
Crying for food
As you screamed in pain.
The rush of the sea
Obeying the tide
Your screams, too.

But lately a fragile balance:
Son Jeff gleeful
At the first hockey score
After a long strike.
Your same wild unloosed joy.

I love it when you come.
Don't stop.

And friend Pat hearing fireworks
In Baltimore New Year's Day.
To keep me company.
To fill the void.
Shouting, "Yes!" like you.

I love it when you come.
Don't stop.

TZIVIA GOVER

KISSING AT THE COUNTER
I was sitting in the office
   at my cold white desk.
The phone was hard—the pen solid. My work
heaped before me like unsorted laundry

   And I thought of you The inside
of my skin felt warm and the whole
world moved over to make room
for the memory of your body and mine
   mirroring
heat and heart beats

The ofce light stared down on me;
bright and rude.
People popped out of their cubicles
   like jack-in-the-boxes—
wound up. Walking and talking

   And the whole world moved
over so that I could feel pillows
sinking and tongues melting and time
   tumbling

I picked up my handful of jangling keys and
   drove
my stubborn car across crowded parking lots
to where I slammed my blue door shut and shot
through the store where you stood
behind your counter, a pen behind
your ear, papers at your beck and call. You
were jotting things down and I looked at
your unfinished business in swarms
on the crackling wood countertop and I
   forgot
everything except my dentist appointment
and my lunch hour ticking smaller and smaller
and the keys in my hand
and the clock on the wall
and the socks in the hamper
and the money in my wallet

   Until you said Kiss me
And I leaned across the counter
and the whole world
moved aside

JAN HARDY

WILD HONEY
nights when
we don't expect it,
when we're tired and it's late
and tomorrow's work
waits to burst out of the alarm clock,
i turn off the light,
turn to you in bed
for a goodnight kiss and all
the air between us catches fire,
draws us into light and music,
colors playing over our skin,
and there is no first or second
now and then or give and take,
there's touch and taste and both of us
wanting, both of us filled,
water pouring from one cup into another
and back again, your sweet rain
opens my small wet flower, mine
opens yours, kisses like flowers
breathe the length of our bodies,
our legs and arms
grow wild roots around each other,
we drink the wine we stored for each other
ready, to our surprise, barely contained
while our heads were being sensible,
automatic and dull as drones,
our bodies were sensing the low hum,
the sweet scent, the rhythm,
soft petals sweating in the sun
all the while, we were
lifting up wings to the warm wind,
carousing, vibrating, diving,
dancing the wild honey dance all day.

THE NEXT TIME YOURE BLEEDING AND CONVINCED I DONT LOVE YOU
We'll start with a simple exercise
to open your senses:
take a deep breath
close your eyes

Imagine all the silk of China flowing
down your body like a magic kimono,
cascading endless caresses
of brilliant color
rippling down your skin
because I want you

Imagine yourself a cat in the sun,
nothing to do but feel yourself loved, taken up
in a stratosphere of warmth and peace,
no sound but the purr in your throat
fills the heat and light around you
because I love you

Now that you're relaxed, remember
you're the one
who believes in Karma,
remember how, across a room and both of us
busy with our own chores, we suddenly begin
to speak the same sentence; remember
when we met, we found we agreed
on everything trivial and important, yet
everything surprised us; believe
in your heart of deepest hearts that I
am your missing twin, the best woman for you
on the authority of the entire Universe.

On a slightly smaller scale, imagine
my nipples, like eyes
watching you
my legs, like these lines
lying sideways

and opening

my lips kissing yours, quick as anger
but patiently waiting
for your reply

DORIS L.HARRIS

CLIMB INSIDE OF ME
I told my woman,
I said,
Woman I ain't in the mood
for no, girl to girl love
the kind that's only made
when the moon is full, and the cat is fed
I've been waiting for you
on the edge of the bed,
there is a stairwell to the left
a ladder to your right, take any route you like
but, you hurry and climb inside of me,
I need to feel your body weight
pressing into mine, as I tear at the flesh
on your round behind, Please
Now, don't go P. C. all over me
I want to hear you call out my name,
along with God's, Jesus, and all twelve apostles
let's not wrestle with semantics
there ain't no other way to say it
there ain't no other way to claim it,
except to say, I need some woman to woman love
some of that sweat pouring, politically incorrect
arching my back
taking no prisoners
neighbors banging on the wall, kind of love
need you ready and willing,
to come and climb
inside
of me.

LOUISE KARCH

UNBRIDLED
Only skinny girls give
their wedding dresses to Goodwill
I know
I've tried them on
watched people watching me
as I walked the aisle
to the dressing room
billowing with lace and tulle
polyester and beads
silk and satin
extravagance with armpit stains
nervous brides I guess

I went to find
one dress
to express my love to you
in drag
a lesbian with a veil and unbridled desire
I never came out
I couldn't even pull
them over my breasts
which you said this morning
were beautiful

Those dresses were designed
for women with
Tinkerbell waists
I couldn't help wondering
as you sucked my ampleness
if those marriages of starvation
lasted

We'll last
longer than satin
maybe not longer than polyester
(that's scary material)
What we have
fits
veil or no veil
dressed or naked
I love you
I do
I do

DENISE NICO LETO

WHAT I THINK OF WHEN YOU'RE GONE
(…) I miss you.
You are away for the weekend.
I feel a little afraid. It is not
car accidents or earthquakes I imagine.
It is violence.
That bare and simple.
Even a short separation:
a run to the store, a weekend camping
could take you from me.
Someone could hate you in just the right amount that day.

I, too have always been
a lesbian. I have never been straight.
But with you it is different. The hate
is more apparent. Urgent. Men stare at you,
challenge and spit. Even as you hold my hand
they flirt and proposition me. Women turn away
and whisper or stare without blinking.
They look at you and gasp. They parade
around you. A butch lesbian sideshow.
Danger splinters the air.
From zero to ugliness in seconds.(...)

EMILY LLOYD

AT THE MICHIGAN WOMYN'S MUSIC FESTIVAL (1994, for Trish Moore)
brown skin, gold hair, green eyes:
you were the color of the woods you led me through
to the hammock some lovers had stretched
between two trees
and perhaps you'd been one of the lovers,
I didn't ask. My mother warned
her son about girls like you,

but you only wanted to talk. About your women:
one who was too attentive, one who ignored you.
I listened, but not too attentively, letting a daydream lazily rise
and settle into the haze between our bodies.
The hammock rocked us closer together, squashing it.

You lit each Camel impatiently,
as if it should have been lit the moment
a smoke occurred to you—lying in wait
for your warm lips. Rattled on
for an hour, ignoring me really,
but eventually you couldn't ignore

the hammock.
Its shameless rhythm reminded you
of something. We kissed.

You're good, you said, surprised, but
I wasn't insulted. Girl,
I'd have waited all afternoon

to occur to you.

ANN MCBREEN

MY OLD LOVER
My old lover and I
went fishing.
We believed enough years had passed
since the breakup,
that time had pulled us so far apart,
that we could just go fishing.

My old lover taught me
how to fish, all those years ago.
We were young and in lust
and I was willing to follow her
to that hot, boring, mosquito-infested
pond and learn to fish,
because she wanted me to.

In time, I learned to love
to fish.
After we separated, I kept fishing.
I took all my other lovers fishing.
Some learned to fish, some even liked it
but none ever loved to fish like
my old lover.

So, when my old lover and I met again,
after all those years,
we decided to go fishing.

But it was different this time.
Now we shared the love of the water,
the love of fishing, and the maturity
that the years had given us.

The sun was still stifling hot, but
it wasn't angry anymore because
my old lover shielded the glare by
reading me poetry on the bank of that
fishless river in the long afternoon.

Then, we went fishing in the midnight.
My old lover introduced me to
glow-in-the-dark bobbers.
We sat on the dock, on the lake
in the moonlight and watched our
reen and red pin-lights bob
up and down on the soft waves.

My old lover called me to her side
and showed me the sparkling path
of the moonlight on the water.
It looked as if bubbles of light
were floating up from the bottom
of the lake and popping in a burst
of white on the tips of the waves.

My old lover and I were fishing.
But in that dreamy midnight,
we stood mesmerized on the dock
on the lake in the raining starlight.
Quietly, without intending to,
we share the poetry of our lives
Silently, without meaning to,
my old lover and I
loved again.

S.J MIRANDA

YOUR BODY
Your body takes mine
with the force/weightlessness
of constellations
where the simplest separation
eclipses all light.

Planetary movements
caught by the heat of the sun
turn taut elliptical orbits
in sweet spiralling
delirious descent.

Galaxies nestled in my hand,
immense,
insatiable,
unbearably iridescent
as your body
your body
takes
mine

DE CIENFUEGOS, CUBA
Llegará el dia
en que tus caderas
de crema/de café delitarán
en los fuegos nuestros cuerpos
pueden iniciar juntos

en la resplenda riqueza
de nuestro calor
en las manos de canela
que te abren

Dejaré que mi boca
te encuentre
que mis labios
enciendan cada llama
de tu piel

Alma de mujer Latina,
llegará el día
que vivirás
en llamas.

PATRICIA MONAGHAN

THE GODDESS POMONA SINGS TO THE OLD WOMAN
You stood there,
a splendid autumn tree,

your trunk so firm
and strong, your hair

a radiance of flame,
your limbs brushed red,

and all I could think
was how strong the sap

pulsed in you, strong
as spring, all I could

think was how deep
you went, all that

rich sap in you,
deeper and deeper and

deeper and how I wanted
to pull your limbs down

to me then, there, under
the open sky, and how

I wanted you then, there,
to flame up

at my touch, how
I wanted to fall

burning, burning, burning,
and ignite all the hills

in a ring of bright flame
around you, old tree,

old splendid woman,
old treasure, old heart.

How I wanted you then.
How I'm wanting you now.

CHERRÍE MORAGA

LOVING IN THE WAR YEARS
Loving you is like living
in the war years.
I do think of Bogart & Bergman
not clear who's who
but still singin a long smoky
mood into the piano bar
drinks straight up
the last bottle in the house
while bombs split
outside, a broken
world.

A world war going on
but you and I still insisting
in each our own heads
still thinkin how
if I could only make some contact
with that woman across the keyboard
we size each other up
yes...

Loving you has this kind of desperation
to it, like do or die, I
having eyed you from the first
time you made the decision to move
from your stool
to live dangerously.

All on the hunch
that in our exchange of photos
of old girlfriends, names
of cities and memories
back in the states
the fronts we've manned
out here on the continent
all this on the hunch

that this time there'll be
no need for resistance.

Loving in the war years
calls for this kind of risking
without a home to call our own
I've got to take you as you come
to me, each time like a stranger
all over again. Not knowing
what deaths you saw today

I've got to take you
as you come, battle bruised
refusing our enemy, fear.

We're all we've got. You and I

maintaining
this war time morality
where being queer
and female is as rude
as we can get.

IF
If in the long run
we weep together
hold each other
wipe the other's mouth
dry from the kiss pressed there
to seal the touch
of spirits separated
by something as necessary
as time,
we will have done enough.

ROBIN MORGAN

DAMN YOU, LADY (The Funky Double Sonnet Tragicomic Lesbian Feminist Blues)
Damn you, lady, get out of my blood for good.
Your eyes, hair, laugh, your politics-erase
them—how your body's swift grace once stood
beside me, how love lit your falcon face.

    Damn you, lady, I refuse to wail
    one moment longer so uncritically
    over you— as if I were a fool
    (or even incorrect politically).

Your gestures in quickliquid flow,
your voice, indigo as a violin's—
get out. Go, let my dreams sleep free
of you, your smell, words, songs, silences...

    Lovesick morons fail the revolution,
    mooning about while work needs to be done
    and feminism's surely the solution
    to everything except your being gone.

... the way you slept, woke, moved at midnight,
your antic grin that struck and blazed me glad
to be alive, the way you loved a fight
in a just cause. The way you drove me mad.

    Damn you, lady, I will not obsess
    one second more. Love's just a masquerade
    at which we women, like men, can oppress
    (an awkward truth we'd rather not parade).

but see I have regained myself entire,
immune to you, asbestos to your fire.

    Damn you, lady, I will yet live through
    this memory, everywhere I turn, of you.

BONNIE MORRIS

LOVING YOU HAS BECOME A POLITICAL ACT
I want to start at the top of your head & work my way down to the arch of your feet. I want to place one hand on the back of your neck and one hand between your breasts and slowly feel the pulses between our skins. I want to lower you very gently onto a firm soft surface, bed, beach, field, rug & look at you for hours 8 hours. I want your fingers on my arm. I want you absolutely. Tell me that you want me. I want to eat out of the light in your eyes & drink out of the white in your teeth. I want to feel you kissing me deeply all around me, the crown of my head, the palms of my hands, the insides of my knees. Tell me that you love me. Brush your fingers through my hair. I want to kiss you from your throat to your forehead & listen in the still room for the sounds of those good kisses. I want to feel you break into a hot sweat. I want your hard bicep under my hand. I will lean over & kiss you & you will flush with arousal & pull me down alongside you. Then we will entwine our sound limbs & strong hands & exchange our tongues for twenty-seven minutes. I will part your lips & hear you sigh. Slide down me like an arrow. Feel the ocean burn between our legs. Outside there is a desert, night, a small town, bare beach, city park, back yard, dark sky, winter. Press your mouth against my neck. Kiss me so the flesh of our mouths meets & our noses touch. Pull back & look at me. Trace your fingers along my skin. Give me chills. Make me shudder. Sing to me. Pull my hair very very very gently letting it slide through your long fingers. Brush yourself against me like a cat. Now I say, now curl into my beating heart.

LESLÉA NEWMAN

How I Want You
the way a plant wants light
leaning its leaves towards the sun
gracefully    turning without effort

the way a child wants a lollipop
no    not the yellow one    the red one
she shrieks    pounding the floor
with fists and feet
the red one and only the red one will do

the way a singer wants to sing
and a dancer want to dance
the way moon longs to light my way at night
how sun burns to warm my face in the day

the way cherry trees yearn to blossom in spring
how old maples want to flare orange in fall
the way snow longs to blanket earth in winter
how heat wants to slow my pulse in summer

I want you the way only a   woman
can want    another woman
with lips smiling arms open
cheeks blushing    knees shaking
cunt throbbing    heart pounding
desire coursing through my veins

fiercely and tenderly    boldly and shyly
with confidence and with fear
with terror    with excitement

with the courage of a woman
who is not afraid to look deeply
into herself    sitting very still
for a long time until
one day she rises
walking slowly and surely
towards what is pulling at her heart

a woman who is not afraid to look
deeply into the eyes of another woman
and say: this is what I want
with humility and respect
with open admiration
with clarity    with dignity
without embarrassment or shame

this is what I want:
you

NIGHT ON THE TOWN
When I step into my red silk panties and swivel
intothe strapless bra my butch bought me
for Valentine's Day

When I slide on my black mesh stockings
with toes pointed, sitting on the bed like some
Hollywood movie queen

When I shimmy into my spandex dress
that sparkles over the tops of my thighs:
a disco ball over a snappy crowd

When I puff on my pink clouds of blush,
brush my eyelashes long and lush,
smear my lips and nails richer than ruby red

When I step into my sky high heels,
snap on some earrings and slip
seventeen silver bracelets halfway up my arm

When I dab my shoulders and neck,
earlobes and wrists, cleavage and thighs
with thick, musky perfume

When I curl my hair into ringlets that dip
over one eye and bounce off my shoulder
like a Clairol girl gone wild

When I turn from the mirror, pick up my purse
and announce to my butch that
I'm ready to go

When I see her kick the door shut,
hear her declare,
"We're not going anywhere, tonight,"

When I whine and say, "But we never go out,"
following her back to the bedroom,
my lips in a pout

When I give in and let her have her way
with me pretending
that wasn't my plan all along

NOTHING LIKE IT
ain't nothing like
a handsome butch
standing at my door
all spiffed up
in a fresh pressed shirt
pleated pants
snappy shoes
a long stemmed red rose
in one hand
my heart
in the other

WHAT MY BUTCH WOULD SAY
"I'm a breast man" but
she's got manners
won't talk with
her mouth
full

MARY BETH O'CONNOR

Crush
I love it when a pretty
blonde haired girl is nice to me
she could be a track star
cheerleader, student council prez

she got stuffed bears
that she actually hugs
lined up on her pink ruffled bed
she got posters with quotes on the wall

and I'm tongue tied, crushed out
feeling weird like something's
wrong with me, I mean something
must be seriously wrong with me

and I gotta keep that covered
up, keep that very very quiet
so nobody finds out
but keeping that so quiet means

I don't know she got
problems at home and she don't date
she got crushes at school maybe
even on a girl like me

or she might like a friend
she might just anyway
a blonde haired, blue eyed pretty girl
might like a friend like me

GERRY GOMEZ PERALBERG

SAILOR
The girls go by in their sailor suits
They catch my eye in their sailor suits
In steam-ironed pants and buffed jet boots
They saunter right up my alley.

I study their easy, confident strides
Crew cuts and white hats capping decadent eyes
They shiver the pearl on night's oystery prize
and they shiver me timbers, unbuckle me thighs
This alley was made for seething.

From the sweat of the street lamp or lap of the sea
A smooth sailor girl comes swimming to me
Says she wants it right now and she wants it for free
Clamps her palms on my shoulders, locks her knees to my
knees
This alley was made for cruising.

Her face is dark coffee, her head has no hair
Her cap shines like neon in the bristling night air
She pins her brass metals to my black brassiere
Tucks her teeth like bright trophies behind my left ear
This alley is very rewarding.

She tosses her jacket and rolls up her sleeves
On her arm's a tattoo of an anchor at sea
She points to the anchor and whispers that's me
And the wetter I get the more clearly I see
This alley was made for submersion.

Her fingers unbutton my 501s
This girl's fishing for trouble and for troubling fun
She slides off her gold rings and they glint like the sun
Then she smirks, rubs her knuckles, and spits out her gum
This alley was made for swooning.

Now she's pushing her prow on my ocean's sponge wall
uncorking my barnacle, breaking my fall
and there's pink champagne fizzling down my decks and
my hall as she wrecks her great ship on my bright port-of-call
This alley was made for drowning.

MEREDITH POND

VELOCITY
There is more than speed to this moment,
this you, this love without fear
of time that hasn't passed,
no month yet, no season, no year. We hold fast
inside this moment and kiss towards forever
and the moon through willows as fire dances
across our mattress licking wood to embers
and you burn against me, smolder, singe me
rough with your scratches or smooth
with the palm of your hand, your hair
a tumble of roaming shadow on my belly
as you fuck me until I beg you to stop,
because I know, I know, I am way past midnight,
way past coming, or wanting to, my body
disappearing like sugar in your tea, jasmine
in your mouth, at the nape of your neck,
between your breasts, your heart
drumming like my tongue deep inside you,
like your hand deep inside me, rocking,
through this waveborne night that once
knew only terror and the ancient rage
of women who somehow knew they
needed, wanted, had to have more
than the world of men
could ever offer.

DEIDRE POPE

LULLABY
Commitment is boring. So we're told.
Our love will fade like sunworn curtains
and it'll be youandme youandme: same old.

True, we don't spend weekends in bed anymore,
or tackle each morning on three hours sleep.
These days we curl around midnight for

talk that happens only when defenses fall by
the bedside and sleepiness opens us up.
There is something to be said for a lullaby

of touch, familiar hands and voice
that cross us safely over from conscious
to closed. It is hard-won, this choice

to refuse the fairy tale, the hourly kiss
-turns-to-kiss-turns-to-a-shrugging-
of-covers. We know the impossibility of exist-

ing in such perpetual bliss; inconvenient mask
that cracks open into long and violent nights.
From storybook to here is a movement, not a fast

change backstage. It is a pencil scratching
two circles out of one closed disk. Its breath-
a long, slow stretch toward relinquishing.

MARY CLARE POWELL

LESBIAN MENOPAUSE
I burrow across our wide bed
and run my hands up your sides,
lift myself onto you, fixing
my breasts to lie amongst yours,
let my weight down slowly, and
kiss the end of your nose.
"I love you," you murmur
and we readjust arms,
always too many for lying together,
too few for making love. And
suddenly all of me that touches
you is wet, water rising
from you, sweet, and I
who was standing on firm ground
just looking around, begin to sink.
I roll off, you sweep the covers back,
lying dew filled and water heavy. Then
you rise out of bed
naked and vertical,
lovely thick water lily
rooted in mud. Porous
stem, weeping leaves,
and extraordinary white
flower on top.

NINA SILVER

AFTER WE'RE OUT
(for terry)

I
Feel my hips smooth and stretched,
pull me toward you,
lay your cheek against mine.
I caress your spine in its strength
of friendship;
I sense the uncertainty in its curve.
Instead of kissing you now
Ilet my hands speak,
around your shoulders
through layers of softness.
There is no hesitation in your hugs.
I see you through a mist of movement,
daring to keep my steady gaze
as we sink down silently,
slowly,
moments flowing through our pores.

II
The cats have been screaming in the bushes
all night.
We interrupt
our quickened breathing to laugh,
making me hold you tighter.
I amaze easily;
when I slip into disbelief
you persist at me.
It's hard not to smile back,
though now I veil
a shy-eyed glance
as I fall into your welcoming pool.
I am wet
and your wet and mine mingle,
mirror on mirror.
I pause, waiting for the release
that never comes.

III
The reel snaps;
the frames have been cut.
I was last seen beside you
lingering
and you were thought
to have lost your way.
It's a small matter,
I try telling myself:
we will be easier,
next time.
My unresolved passion dissipates
and suddenly, ashamed,
I hide my breasts...
from yours.
I know that is silly
so I look away.
Then
slowly,
like a candle softly burning,
your hand is on my shoulder.
You are smiling.

ANITA SKEEN

ELIZABETH RESPONDS TO THE SEPARATION
Your absence stirs up frequent conversation
in my brain. I talk to you in rhyme.
I state the facts. I ask for explanation,

my imaginary friend. Silence is aggravation:
winter sans snow, mountain too steep to climb.
Your absence leads to curious conversation

we would never have at home. Revelation
sprouts in unexpected spots, its bloom sublime.
I state more facts. Your explanation

slips a crocus in my hand. My admiration
escalates. I talk to you (why stare?) in mime.
Your absence turns me into conversation

with a cow, a fence. I make a declaration
to the moon at dawn. O love! Time
takes her time, that's fact. No explanation

comes for why I miss you so. Infatuation
ages through the years, like wine.
Your absence puts an end to conversation.
I am the fact. You are the explanation.

MARGARET SLOAN-HUNTER

LONGING
I am missing you, tonight
The room is void of your
moans and laughter
I am missing you, tonight
Need your thick, brown hair
to wrap round my fingers
Need your dark smile
to break forth all over me
Need those thick, strong thighs
to hold me up to the sky
Need your breasts rubbed
round my face
Need your calling out my name
Need your back arched under me
like a strong, black bridge
Linking our African pasts.
I am missing you tonight.
Please come to me.

SIDES
Sometimes, I require nothing more
than
to have you near me,
making love gently
lightly touching, tracing lines
around your heart
and breasts;
feeling your tender
fragrant, steady breathing;
moistening my fingers
with your anticipation
of things to come.

Sometimes, I require nothing less
than
all of you
taking me inside
pushing past all walls,
making furious and passionate
rhythms
hearing you breathe heavy
and unsteady
in my ear;
tensions exploding
as you wet my face
with your trust.

MAY SWENSON

MORNINGS INNOCENT
I wear your smile upon my lips
arising on morning's innocent
Your laughter overflows my throat
Your skin is a fleece about me
With your princely walk I salute the sun
People say I am handsome

Arising on mornings innocent
birds make the sound of kisses
Leaves flicker light and dark like eyes

I melt beneath the magnet of your gaze
Your husky breath insinuates my ear
Alert and fresh as grass I wake

and rise on mornings innocent
The strands of the wrestler
run golden through my limbs
I cleave the air with insolent ease
With your princely walk I salute the sun
People say I am handsome

FOUR-WORD LINES
Your eyes are just
like bees, and I feel
like a flower.
Their brown power makes
a breeze go over
my skin. When your
lashes ride down and
rise like brown bees'
legs, your pronged gaze
makes my eyes gauze.
I wish we were
in some shade and
no swarm of other
eyes to know that
I'm a flower breathing
bare, laid open to
your bees' warm stare.
I'd let you wade
in me and seize
with your eager brown
bees' power a sweet
glistening at my core.

ARYN A. WHITEWOLF

BUS STOP LOVER
     It happened in a heartbeat
years of passion rolled into a speck of time
     our eyes met/ we knew desire
made love/ threw parties/ made friends
     walked on a hundred beaches
ate cheesecake in bed/ bathed each other
     raised a family/ changed flat tires
adopted a puppy/ grew vegetables/ shopped for
     curtains/ gave each other flowers
played softball/ cards/ monopoly/ went to
     drive-ins/ talked baby talk/ kissed
cried / wrapped presents/ argued sometimes
     threw snowballs/ sailed/ had pillow fights
said I LOVE YOU every day/ lived and loved
     openly as lesbians for over forty years
in the blink of an eye/ an instant/ a heartbeat
     then your bus came and you were gone

TERRY WOLVERTON

BLACK SLIP
She told me she had always fantasized about a woman in a black slip.
It had to do with Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield Eight.

She came to my house with a huge box
gift-wrapped with gigantic ribbons.
Inside, a black slip.

Slinky, with lace across the bodice.
She told me how she was embarrassed
in the department store,
a woman in men's pants
buying a black slip clearly not intended for herself,
and about the gay men in line behind her,
sharing the joke.

She asked me to try it on.
I took it into the bathroom,
slipped it over my head.
I stared at myself for a long time
before I came out of the bathroom
walked over to her
lying on the bed.

That was the first time. It got easier.
The black slip was joined by a blue slip
then a red one
then a long lavender negligee,
the back slit to there.

I wore them to bed.
In the morning she would smile and say
how much she loved waking up next to a woman
in a slip.
The black slip remained our favorite.
We always made love when I wore the black slip.

Once I showed up at her door late at night wearing a long coat
with only the black slip underneath.

One night I cooked dinner at her apartment wearing nothing
but the black slip
and red suede high heels.

It was always the first thing to pack when we went on
vacation.

And she used to make me promise
that if we ever broke up
I'd never wear that slip for anyone else.

I don't know where it is now.

Stripped of that private skin
when we broke up
I never went back to claim it.

I think she must have
packed it
given it
thrown it
away.

On bad days I imagine her
sliding it over the head of some new love whispering about Elizabeth Taylor
and waking up to a woman in a slip.

Or perhaps
it's still there
draped on the back of the door.

A sinuous shadow.

A moan in the dark.

ZANA

DO LOVE DIFFERENT
1.
i want to forget everything i've known
with you.
with you, i want to forget
the fear of falling from high places
of being sucked into swamps.
i want to remember things
i didn't know i knew:
how to look at joy straight on—
how to love from joy, not fear.

this time i won't put one name
to everything i long for.
when i wake in bliss, in love
i'll remember you are not the sole
ingredient.

yes. and i want to
listen to all you are
i want to know when to say
you go alone into this part, now:
this is how we are different.
i want to remember that we are
different.

2.
  i am afraid
       of the feeling
                   of quicksand
    so warm, enveloping
     not letting me go.
                   i think of you
and inside me things separate
   something goes soft
  inside my very cells
everything is fluidity and
   there is beauty in that
         engulfing
            but
     fluidity scares me:
             it has no center
               no guideposts
  this is the feeling
   i have always known as love.
  it is because of this feeling
   that i say i love you.

3.
now:
i work changes in my life
alone; it is not time
to be with you.
the time will come, I'm not
impatient

my work lately takes strange forms:
i clean the sink attentively
wash my hair meditatively; i am
slowly, outdoors, by hand
sewing new curtains.
at first i thought i was
arranging my life for you
and then i saw—no—
i am preparing a nest
for my changes
to be born in.

4.
see things different
do love different

there is a place between
sleeping and waking
there must be a place between
lover and not-lover

can we be intimate but not sexual
can we be forever but not sexual
can we be sexual but not forever

can we be
    intimate
  but not   sexual
intimate   open
souls touching
can we be sexual
and not compromise our souls

can we do love different
can we
  start to
   do love different

can we be
  whatever we be

5.
do this for me:
be patient.
remind me to breathe.
confess to me your terror
of bogs and altitudes.
i will remind you to breathe.
to keep breathing.
one day, maybe
we'll swim out to where we can't see shore.

HOW IT STARTS

THE WIND/DOOR (for L.)

TO PRAISE

MORNING POEM

MARRIED LADIES HAVE SEX IN THE BATHROOM

MY NEXT LOVER

BURYING THE CAT

BECAUSE THEY ARE MINE

ISN'T IT GYNERGIZING

AS YOU FLY TO CHICAGO: A CONFESSION (for Janice)

SKYLIGHT

TWO SONGS FOR TOUCH

I. Sleeping with You

II. Skin

GIRLFRIENDS

NOTE TO MY LOVER'S BROTHER

WOMAN SLEEPING ALONE

TO HOLD ME INSIDE OUT

LAST KISS

BUTTONS

NOTHING

IN THE MORNING

YOUR FINGERS ARE STILL

MOMENT

DREAM LOVER

A GIFT OF PLEASURE

FIRST OF THE MOTORCYCLE POEMS

SECOND OF THE MOTORCYCLE POEMS

VICTORIAN LADIES

WHO I AM

VISIT ME

KISSING AT THE COUNTER

WILD HONEY

THE NEXT TIME YOURE BLEEDING AND CONVINCED I DONT LOVE YOU

CLIMB INSIDE OF ME

Litany

UNBRIDLED

WHAT I THINK OF WHEN YOU'RE GONE

AT THE MICHIGAN WOMYN'S MUSIC FESTIVAL (1994, for Trish Moore)

IN RESPONSE TO LESBIAN PERSONAL ADS

MY OLD LOVER

AND SUNDAY MORNING

YOUR BODY

DE CIENFUEGOS, CUBA

THE GODDESS POMONA SINGS TO THE OLD WOMAN

LOVING IN THE WAR YEARS

IF

DAMN YOU, LADY (The Funky Double Sonnet Tragicomic Lesbian Feminist Blues)

LOVING YOU HAS BECOME A POLITICAL ACT

How I Want You

NIGHT ON THE TOWN

NOTHING LIKE IT

WHAT MY BUTCH WOULD SAY

Crush

SAILOR

VELOCITY

LULLABY

LESBIAN MENOPAUSE

COME TO ME UNBOUND

AND A CANDLE IS SET SOMEWHERE -.HD

AFTER WE'RE OUT

ELIZABETH RESPONDS TO THE SEPARATION

LONGING

SIDES

HOME TONGUE

MORNINGS INNOCENT

FOUR-WORD LINES

NIGHT MUSIC

DRAGON LOVER

BUS STOP LOVER

BLACK SLIP

DO LOVE DIFFERENT