The silver tongue of that thinning moon was licking me in just the right places, and I crept from my bed like a lust-drunk and lonely wolf leaving the solace of her too-familiar and colorless den. My favor was for the wild and strange, you see. My hackles were raised in the name of beastly pleasure and creaturely delight. The Beltane fever was upon me, and I remembered what it meant to crawl close to the earth, to seduce the pale green blades to rise and penetrate the soft wet of ground, destined to wail with ecstasy when the first beam of dawn strikes them. I remembered the blush of the stretching petals and the virility of the thorns.
Can you hear them, those hungry unfurling ferns and hot pink aching buds? Theirs is such primal poetry, such hedonistic hymns. This is the night of the midspring huntress, and I’ve set my ear to those slow-thrusting songs of breath and body, of groaning branch and thirsty root.
Just at the witching hour, I’ll press the bones of my bare back hard into bark and fall into that mad sort of short-lived love with a knotty, naughty oak. She’ll heave with the wanting of my exhale, and I’ll hiss long and deep into her shameless veins. On and on it will go. I’ll breathe and get breathed, slow like the lapping of the calmest waves on forgiving sand then with all the surging erotic fury of a summer storm.
Photo Credit: Jessica Manns Photography
Just before that arrogant sun rises, all will go lightning-bright, and that boiling blood of mine will turn to lava. My ancient lover will swallow me whole, and I’ll become the holy, howling pulse of heathen memory.
Here, I am bride to the forbidden, and my feeling flesh is a pagan altar to the oldest devotion, to that long-forgotten love between the human animal and these green, gruff gods. I am wordless prayer. I am whole-soul reverence, and I belong to these wilds. I am a living, wide-hipped, wet-lipped incantation. I am a breast-to-bark sculpture with a slow-searching and adventurous tongue. I am unsweetened, raw, sharp-clawed demand, then I am the billowed and precious sugar of surrender. I dream. I am dreamt. I dream. I am dreamt. I die into a dark and dancing sea of perpetual, primordial yearning, and all is alive within me. I am alive in all.
I am a sweat-beaded skin-drum thundering a ceaseless song. I am a willing offering to these hallowed grounds, to my beloved dead, and to her, my ancient enchantress, my twig-handed lord. I’ll sleep satiated on her moss, my ribs caressed toward a dreamscape at long last by her thin-limbed shadows, and I’ll wake just in time to see the evening bale fires burn.
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The silver tongue of that thinning moon was licking me in just the right places, and I crept from my bed like a lust-drunk and lonely wolf leaving the solace of her too-familiar and colorless den. My favor was for the wild and strange, you see. My hackles were raised in the name of beastly […] -
The silver tongue of that thinning moon was licking me in just the right places, and I crept from my bed like a lust-drunk and lonely wolf leaving the solace of her too-familiar and colorless den. My favor was for the wild and strange, you see. My hackles were raised in the name of beastly […] -
The silver tongue of that thinning moon was licking me in just the right places, and I crept from my bed like a lust-drunk and lonely wolf leaving the solace of her too-familiar and colorless den. My favor was for the wild and strange, you see. My hackles were raised in the name of beastly […] -
Those wicked hours before morning found me wrapped in human-skin leathers stitched from the puckered faces of dead kings and wanting a fire. I took my time. I gathered river stones still stained with the blood of my orphaned dreams and circled a feeble bundle of storm-wet pine wood, juniper branches, last year’s sticky grief, and the oil-slick skull of a holy raven who died the good death.
This moment wants a new anthem.
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The silver tongue of that thinning moon was licking me in just the right places, and I crept from my bed like a lust-drunk and lonely wolf leaving the solace of her too-familiar and colorless den. My favor was for the wild and strange, you see. My hackles were raised in the name of beastly […]
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