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Dancing With the Women in the Moon
By Carolyn Martin
*Editor's Note: From her book The Way a Woman Knows (Portland, Oregon: The Poetry Box, 2015)
Feminine? Never felt the feel.
She chews her fingernails and spits out
garden dirt. Guess I’ll die curious
in dungarees and army boots
She leans against the wood-worn fence
the Wind, gathering its nerve, strips
gravity and surfs her up a Douglas fir.
From trunk to crown, juncos, sparrows, jays
escape and clear her way through
moon-grey clouds to Mothers, Maidens,
Crones dancing on lava plains.
Let it out, she hears their song.
In circles nothing hides. She watches hard
—magnetized by breasts, hips, kohled eyes
inviting her to join their nakedness.
Someone grabs her hand, strokes her face.
Someone rouses flush-on-flesh. No shame
or blush. No retreat from who they are--
harems on the moon’s nearside.
Have I been here before? she shouts
They wrap her in one bold embrace.
Let it out! She dances hard, oblivious
of the earth-bound Wind spying
through the clouds.