Home again,
I feel as a stranger to the indoors,
The smell of clean clothes,
Imprisonment under electric lighting.

Now I am curly-headed,
Smoke-scented,
Mud-sprinkled.

My hands feel as leathery as
The bulky Bean Boots I wear over my wool socks-
They have been marked by climbing ropes,
tree bark,
the handle of my guitar case.

I crave a return to the forest,
the trance-like feeling we all got from staring at the fire,
the dirt under my fingernails,
you in your sleeping bag (maximum capacity: three persons)
the children on my lap and at my feet.

We sit together,
On old chairs with cracked legs
And upholstery of a dated pattern.

My hands:
blackened at the fingertips
nails in ruins
calloused.
it appears that my guitar is the victor of this battle.

The dining room is a mess-
textbooks strewn about, proclaiming that
a change in buyer preferences will
cause a shift in demand
and that
the Amarna Period reflected
a number of stylistic changes
and the clock on the oven says it's nearly midnight.

Retire with me to the front porch.
Sit down in a white rocking chair
with green-and-brown striped cushions
And feel the cool, clean mist on your cheeks
As the rain comes pouring forth
From the opened mouth of Tlaloc,

And we will sing, and laugh, and cry
Until it is quite late indeed
And we become
dizzy,
giddy,
wobbly-minded
And fall gratefully into bed.

I am here for one reason only:
the enjoyment of the male gaze, in two ways:

So the eyes of men may be delighted
By the contours of my form,
My graceful assumption of the traditional female role,
The fire in my eyes,
The eloquent curls sliding down the arch of my back
Like a cascade in a river cool and clean,

and so that I may enjoy the male gaze myself:
From his approval of me comes my own;
From his acknowledgement of my beauty comes my reassurance,
my security.

He will look down on me
As a member of the weaker ***,
and I will look down on him as self-glorifying,
empty-headed.

We spend it close in spirit,
but our bodies never touch.

I know little of your Inner Thoughts,
but your Eyes are like those of Horus,
gazing over me always,
your Heart nurturing like Hathor's
caring for me eternally,
but at a safe distance, from above.

You showed me my Identity;
You chastise me for my wrongdoings.
Like Osiris making my last judgement,
you sit, enthroned, with your tall white hat, flanked by vultures,
and deliver your verdict:

Love.
Love despite my failings, despite my faults,
for which you give me disappointed
looks that smash my heart to pieces,
like Seth did to your own body, you god of the Dead.

And now she, my Isis, gathers them for me.
But she forgets one vital part:

My ability to distinguish good from evil,
and now my heart is not light like the vulture's feather.

It is heavy as a river-stone and will be eaten by jackal-headed beasts.

But still, my time with you is a time of love:
enigmatic, painful love.

The chest proclaims:
Twilight Collective
The red fabric faded
and
worn thin and soft over years
Of status as
that revered object:
The favorite t-shirt,
worn first from the wash.

How it flattered your form!
Now it is draped limply from mine,
Its hem nearly at my knees,
The sleeves, short on you,
Hang past my elbows,
Giving me the appearance of a child in her father's clothes,
or of a scarecrow, faded in the sun.

Your smell remains in the fabric,
And it wraps me, safely,
As you do in your arms.

Lovingly I imbibe the sweet fragrance
As a traveler does water,
found in an oasis

And I drift to sleep in this endless desert
That is separation from you,
your voice,
your touch.

When I awake,
The rain has stopped- mostly.

I turn over to take in the glory of your resting form.
Your breath:
slow
deep
rhythmic
Makes me think of the days we spent by the sea,
taking refuge from the burning sun under striped umbrellas
that never stood quite right,
Drinking diet cola from cans that the sand always stuck to.

Your countenance, though now serene,
Is the same one that glared at me, exasperated,
as I drove us home only hours ago,
with the windows down and the rain
pelting our faces,  
soaking our T-Shirts and stinging my hand,
which I had ****** outside.

I chuckle at the memory:
the way the humidity curled my hair
and created the oppressive sensation of being in a sauna,
making respiration difficult.

Seeing the clock,
I curl back up to your warm body under our worn-out cotton sheets,
close my eyes,
and return to sleep's abundant shores.

My Soul was shut tight;
No light could ever enter such a place.

and here You are,
gingerly coaxing open the doors,
slowly pulling up the shades,
gently brushing the dust from the worn glass panes.

There are dishes stacked in the kitchen sink.
There is a skeleton in the closet.
The air is still musty and stagnant.

But:
The light is streaming in,
the sun's rays warming every surface, brightening the corners.

Progress.

And:
soon, this place will be clean,
bright,
new,
beautiful,
Yours.

Don't You know that I'm all full of love for *You?