Early morning, cracked and calloused,
Feet divine, snuggle under my cover.
This day, to-day, ain't like any other,
I'll shroud my face, but let my mane be.
I'll kiss your hand and your neck,
With lips hungry and carefree.
I'll see you as you are, and mayhaps,
This Beltane, you'll knock and see me.
A poem of love in the crook of your knee,
Soul to soul, we'll walk down to the river,
Your voice in my throat, we'll sing into being
Our crisp new selves.
For I've looked in my hand-mirror,
And seen you as you were, as all world knew,
But not as I know you'd choose to be.
Not so fast, wait for me,
I'll dip my toe in the fire
And wave through the flames.
I'll hold tight your galoshes,
Until you step out again,
A different you to mirror
The charred-to-bone me.
And we'll walk back to the village,
The children we were meant to be.
You're scared, but I was once, too.
You say, but how will they know us?
You, by your blister-buster galoshes.
And me, by my raw Magdalene lips.
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Look, I did a nonsense poem that kinda looks like a woman, a bit, though not like me. She's got the broad shoulders, and the weird, round mothering waist. But her legs are short, and stumpy, even if I've given her my lips. Borrowed. Just for the weekend. Ignore this. It's nonsense, too.