Tag: poems

Ask me about the summer
I fell in love with someone
more blackberry bramble than girl.
Aching to be touched
but never talking about the thorns.
And me, all heavy handed
and too proud to acknowledge
the things I’d cut myself on.
I dreamt about juice
running down my chin
for months.

Trista Mateer

When I am looking at my moonfaced girl,
my beautiful black-eyed thing,
and I smell her like smoke all around me
and the handsome rasp of her voice strokes my ears
and my rough-skinned hands are permitted
to settle in the soft curves of her hips
and trace the lines of her fine-wrought thighs
and she nudges her smooth nose
neckwards to smell my cologne;

this is when I know
I am the luckiest dyke in the world.

“Femme,” I.M.E.

She sleeps all day,
dreams of you in both worlds,
tills the blood in and out of uterus,
wakes up smelling of zinc.

Grief sedated by orgasm,
orgasm heightened by grief.

God was in the room
when the man said to the woman
I love you so
much wrap your legs around
me pull me in pull me in pull
me in pullme in pull mein
pullmein

Sometimes when he had her
nipple in his mouth she’d whisper
                Allah-
this too is a form of worship.

It smelt like flowers the last time she
buried the friend with the kind eyes.
The last time she buried her face
into his mattress, frangipani.

Her hips grind,
pestle and mortar,
cinnamon and cloves.
Whenever he pulls out:
                  loss.

Grief Has Its Blue Hands in Her Hair by Warsan Shire