I am here in Suburbia.  It is easy here, watered lawns and life like the weather is mundane...perpetually perfect,  monotonously sunny, and manufactured.  The people too.  They are afraid of rain, of cold and the beauty in discomfort.  They are afraid of pain and so while their facade is approachable they are distant.  

Men fall in love with me for the same reason.   They say, "I have never met a woman like you."  And I know this is true at least for these bearded boys confined to a radius of conformity.  

But women like me, we are everywhere we allow our rebellious selves to flourish in expression.  These are the women who not only raise warriors, but are warriors.  

There is an old city, a city of faith... weathered with the age of monsoons and dry heat.  Her wrinkles in crumbling adobe.  She offers a sunrise and sunset with colors that do not have names but are emotions.  And in the open sky, her thoughts have no hindrance.  The high desert has tested her and her offspring.  And unlike suburbia, water is scares so when it rains...people remember to dance.  

She has a history but does not hide her history because she is authentic.  Without her past, the dirt of the land would never have been fashioned into Great Cathedrals, humble churches and miraculous staircases.  It is her tribulations that ground her, for the winds of March uproot those delicate spirits, consuming them in a cloud of yellow pollen.  

It is her authenticity that saved her.  Liberated her from the fate of materialism, feckless white paint on the perimeter of social confines.  No, the fences she builds are sturdy, deep into the hard caliche.  Mismatched in height and beautiful…beautiful in their practicality…not only keeping cayotes out, but standing tall for what she stands for.  She liberates herself from the fate of the living dead.

She is the real woman who men love.  A woman of grit.  The woman I want to be.

I am here in Suburbia.  It is easy here, watered lawns and life like the weather is mundane...perpetually perfect,  monotonously sunny, and manufactured.  The people too.  They are afraid of rain, of cold and the beauty in discomfort.  They are afraid of pain and so while their facade is approachable they are distant.  

Men fall in love with me for the same reason.   They say, "I have never met a woman like you."  And I know this is true at least for these bearded boys confined to a radius of conformity.  

But women like me, we are everywhere we allow our rebellious selves to flourish in expression.  These are the women who not only raise warriors, but are warriors.  

There is an old city, a city of faith... weathered with the age of monsoons and dry heat.  Her wrinkles in crumbling adobe.  She offers a sunrise and sunset with colors that do not have names but are emotions.  And in the open sky, her thoughts have no hindrance.  The high desert has tested her and her offspring.  And unlike suburbia, water is scares so when it rains...people remember to dance.  

She has a history but does not hide her history because she is authentic.  Without her past, the dirt of the land would never have been fashioned into Great Cathedrals, humble churches and miraculous staircases.  It is her tribulations that ground her, for the winds of March uproot those delicate spirits, consuming them in a cloud of yellow pollen.  

It is her authenticity that saved her.  Liberated her from the fate of materialism, feckless white paint on the perimeter of social confines.  No, the fences she builds are sturdy, deep into the hard caliche.  Mismatched in height and beautiful…beautiful in their practicality…not only keeping cayotes out, but standing tall for what she stands for.  She liberates herself from the fate of the living dead.

She is the real woman who men love.  A woman of grit.  The woman I want to be.

I want to drive him to the country and sit in the silence like dew.
And listen to the grass stained hills take little sips of air.
And listen to the roosters gasp for the light of the rising sun.
I want him to feel this – this Texas.
Where the crickets croak eternal  
and the cayotes call confused to country dogs like the wild.
I want to drive him to the country and weep excess tears
down our cold, city scathed cheeks
in rhythm with the birds as they sing their morning songs –
and swoon each other awake.
Who will swallow the worm as prey?
And you’ll hear them say:
maybe it isn’t so much about all you do and do and do?
and the sun’s lips share the same message,
but only to the few who know a Texas country morning
like a well-kept secret:
whose cups catch the cows stretching when they wake.

I want to drive him to the country and cry
and decide what life is like in synchronous solitude
with her timelessness
Singing of Dawn’s baby yawn -
the sound of her silence a sweet surprise.
Her fingertips linger
on each blade, on each bend, on each bug and tree.
I want him to understand the longing in each whistle and tune –
for country cravings aren’t satisfied with one lover’s hand,
but imbued with the light touch of a million–
all abundant in each drop of river and pond.
And when he sees the shadow of fences lining pasture walls
and reflecting on the wet ground,
we’ll turn on the engine and drive away.
The day will forget, with its ever-searching eyes,
what it saw in that morning sky.
But the body will remember – as it does
with each kiss, with each touch and scent,
sweet, sweet Texas will whisper her fingertips full of song –
and the birds will sing, and the worms will whine,
and the dew will drip as your senses will rise.

This cigarette stays lit
You are warm and sore
The frogs croak & the cayotes howl
The fire stays lit
The only thing illuminating the night
Besides the astounding stars