Saturday, March 28, 2015
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Your roads --the curves of women linked together, uncovered we discovered beautiful : hipped and bedrocked-- jurassic slabs of slate. Your cabin's music playing, and fire when we entered, entered where she said yes, I slipped old stones on her finger. Where bears still sleeping, where still illegal for us to marry, you should know you were apart of the story: story where two women become lovers again and again, in the woods, on a hill, in a state where this kind of love is dangerous, not unlike all love. Where we ate at the Old Mill, meat covered in stone ground corn and fried, we tasted you and left the morning before the snow and ice. We slept on the finest pillows, swallowed from our tongues wine and juice and with dog as witness, made a promise to each other. We drifted through dark chambers of blue, watched jellyfish through glass umbrella into red, and sharks glided over head. We drove through smoky mountains--their blue aura, their snowy tops and slippery rocks where the cold bit our necks for each photo-op. We were high, we were in clouds, in love and looking out at the curve of the world.