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Dear Water,

Show me the way. Lead me deep into your mysteries. Cleanse and quench me, show me how to flow. To flow with the magnetic moon, waxing and waning, around and around again. Awaken my intuition, seat of my wisdom. Open wide my third eye, home of my vision. Mother Ocean, carry me on your rocking waters, lullaby me in your watery lap.


This Queer Church

Spokes on a wheel we circle up wagons circled up when threatened elephants circle up when one is ailing–they back their water balloon bodies into the center, trunks facing out. They act as support beams for the one crying elephant broken, the one in the center who would die if she fell.

I did create a space like this.

I am.

Am creating.


We meet in the slender sliver of the new moon’s light. New moons mark beginnings. We sing and rotate around the seasons like spin the bottle. We break bread and break water and break the silences around what’s been broken.

We celebrate. Rejuvenate. We consensually kiss same-sex lips and make eye contact. Eye contact. There are always candles. There are usually feathers. Sometimes there are flowers.

This church is not a place of choking or burning or spurning the choices of magicians like Us. We hold hands a chain of daisies a chain of dandelions not weeds flowers medicinal.

We cast this Circle

in Perfect Love

and in

Perfect Trust.

Blessed Be.

stretch marks and words.

I don’t want to write about childhood anymore. I don’t want to write about how no one asked. How no one asked about why my parents were never around. How no one asked why I was responsible for my little brothers’ homework and meals and personal hygiene. How no one asked what is was like to have a mother who almost never drew a sober breath.  How no one asked if I had thought about going to college. 

I was (and am) brilliantly creative but I am angry with my words now–angry at their reticence, their evasiveness. I am swollen with an absence of words, filled with nothing but old socks stretched out and unwearable, the kind I have to yank on throughout the day to free my toes from the bunched-up bundles. This strains the threadbare socks even more and the problem grows. It evolves. And this reminds me of stretchmarks–the result of birthing–or maybe in this case pregnancy that doesn’t necessarily result in a baby: My Writing.

I once had a lover who called my stretch marks “tiger stripes.” I liked that.

I have stretchmarks because one pregnancy did result in a birth and now he’s 13 years old. I learned this week that he has begun to smoke, four years earlier than my starting point at age 17. See how problems evolve? How they take on new forms? Always a rolling snowball and I just want to write about it. Want to ball up the bits of wax from my wanings and mold a perfect castle, a perfect place where the reader can lose herself, a second home, an escape hatch. Or more like a portal.

Birth canal in reverse. Back through the tunnel, returning to the womb. To the hot chamber of alchemy where possibility is born. I am looking for the words to lead me.

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Poet and Tarot Reader, specializing in Water Cartography
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