my gookum said only
the wild ones are holy.
bush in northern Michigan
is the ancestral field of my body,
a girl who tastes of summer ragweed
in the high heat of noon.
my body grows by night in secret,
wet with yearling dew.
breasts and hips spread
like bushfires in a dry season,
skin pale as moonlight at dawn,
soft as a muskrat’s pelt skinned in March.
my mouth is a damselfly’s wings,
iridescent breath on your sex.
my hips hold a cock the colour
of crushed blueberries, bittersweet purple.
my breasts dart from your hands
like minnows, chase deeper water.
my gookum said a woman moves
like the sway of cattails in a June wind.
I lean to you like an otter dives, slick
and glistening against your chest.
underneath the cedar of my thighs,
past the birch tree of my spine
is an opening, a rattlesnake den,
when you press your body in me,
the sound I make is a blackbird’s cry.
here is the wild heart of me,
rush of heat on your fullness,
this is the holy wild she made me.
a woman’s sex is as sacred as her land,
my ancestors learned from creation,
a woman is as holy wild as
her body’s made to be.