Myrtle Dance

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment 
The night before the full
moon, I make plans. A 
Beltane fire will be lit, wine,
the remembrance of
the light within and
a solemn bow to all that 
grows and causes
growth.

I will journal and cut
cords, chant harm ye
none under my breath,
simmer cinnamon and
cloves, rosemary and orange
in a cast iron pot to
invoke health, prosperity,
and all goodness.

I will sing to the moon, 
inviting the crepe myrtles I 
prune and water 
during the day to 
recognize me in this 
new light. I will get
tipsy on the wine, perhaps
even dance round the 
myrtles believing they
dance with me.

I will charge my crystals
and myself under the light 
of the grandmother.
The dewy night will feel
strange on my skin until
I remember I belong to it.

My wife looks up from her
iPad just long enough
to remind me that our
godson’s birthday dinner is
tomorrow night.  

The wine will save.
The moon will understand. 

The myrtles may still dance though.

Fresh Air

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

I feel a little sorry for people who never had
to come out,
who never needed to hold
a central fact of their very being as
a blood-oath between their future
and their past,
who never got to
learn the myriad twitchy codes that
taught one to discern who among them
was safe.

Those who never had the chance
to navigate the waters where family
got smaller,
and thus,
never entered the land with just one
law — you get to build your own.

Even as I write this, I hear
the plaintive wails of straight women,
“Oh, I know the codes, sugar” and cishet
men, “I got kicked out of the house at
18; all I know is a chosen family.”

And so I ask to them and you alike:
Have you come out?
Thrown off the mantle of the mask and
announced your authenticity to some you
fear you’ll lose?
Have you
put everything on the line in exchange for
answering the plea of your heart to live
honestly? To show up
openly? To be free?

I hope so that for you,
whoever you are stumbling
on these lines.

I hope so, that, for you.

For I feel sorry for the people
who never get to come out.

The Bonds of Matrimony

~ Deb ~ 2 Comments 
Every girl wants to feel like
a princess on her wedding
day.  That’s what the woman
said on the true crime show
already destined to end with
an incarcerated ex-husband. 

How many times have I 
heard that? Count. Less. And
it’s not even true. Let’s get
this out of the way first:
“girls” aren’t supposed to 
get married.  Women get
married.  

But more important: some
women probably want to feel like a
badass at their wedding. Some
likely want to feel statuesque
or Amazonian.  Pretty? Yes. But
“pretty” as in powerhouse, audacious,
fierce. Unapologetically shield-maiden
fuckaroundandfindoutery pretty. 

Some women want to be 
handsome. Some want to be
quirky and fun. Some want to be
loving and easy and equal, just like
the marriage they'll insist upon. 

Some women don’t want to be 
anything on the wedding day they 
opt to never happen. They’re happy
being enough all on their own.  

Perhaps, and I’m just spit-ballin’
here, but, perhaps if little girls were
given choices other than princess,
fewer women would find themselves
with an incarcerated ex-husband.

Safe Space

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

When I feed the birds, I talk
to set them at ease.
I know they’re somewhere in
the trees, though unseen,
watching me walk to the
shed, pull out the bag
of black oil sunflower seeds,
lug It to the mimosa tree
with the multiple trunks
and multiple feeders.

Helloo, birdies!  I know you’re
watching me.  I’m filling up
your pantries.  Eat well and
take care of your babies.

I wonder if they’ll ever be
used to me. Waiting for
dinner a little closer, giving
me a wink, landing on my
shoulder if I stand still
enough. Or are they
smarter than us? Do
they innately know that
predators often offer
treats?

Helloo, birdies! Watch from
wherever feels safe. I’ll still fill
the pantries.  Eat well, 
take care of babies, and
listen to your instincts.

The safest spaces never push.