. wet .

Rivers of it offered up in panting showers of shaded subtle-lit forest where she might strip, strip all of her outer dryness away and become it; just one more rope swing jump, slow entry into those deep ponds of invitation, all this and even more. Thirty years and the peak rose on the surfed wave of her.

She had written pornographically of it, yes, it’s quite true of her. Her longings took shape, and peaked repeatedly with a particular partner. She wrote adoringly of hot salted tears, of the copper and iron taste of blood; she had written poem after poem of her thirst and need and fucking herself while composing her dismay and frustration, that her special love was lost at sea while she, she had been left to drip her sweat and fluids on a bed.

She had written whimsical verse, creating a love-pun of dancing and flying and sharing sun and smoke on a Washington coast; drifted by breeze and grey salted wood. Feathered in white and black, she and her gull mate reveling and singing to each other beside crashing ocean. She herself, the maddened woman that she had become, the heartless warrior to protect her sisters, her daughters, her lovers, wrote of brave ancient ones. She wove Sappho and prayed with that priestess singer in their endings together on a granite Greek shore. She plucked Ophelia’s own flowers, touching gently while her sister drowned. She tore her hair in the suddenness of circular expanding rain drops forming puddles of her, of lovers immersed and kissing, of fog swept cities where hope of it was there, was present. In each whisper of her deepest driven need; the ocean, the clouds, the sound of it on metal rooftops and cheering itself in melancholic rushes down cheap tin drains.

Thirty years of desert surrounding her and becoming her skin; hurtled always, heart first followed by cunt, that sand and dry clay of blown opposition melted away, melted as she did in repetition after repetition. Significant, yes, but she had never seen the continuity; in denial of that single truth. It was her constant, her single theme tucked neatly beneath her folded panties, farther down than the tear run inks of her hidden love letters.

To mix as one, without suspensions, without delay, without some far too often deceptions, without the packed sand coarseness given to her every day, this then her only theme remains. So many lies and obscured intentions, the patterned sea-foam lace of all whom she had loved; from close enough to feel their breath and smell their scent, or from far away. At thirty years her discovery; she was stained.

Tea, blood, juice, wine, the vomit and cum she was engulfed in, the weeping blisters with their amber hardened salvations, the apples and pears she herself had collected and pressed and slurped them licking, always licking, the sauces and rues requiring constant whisking. She regretted none of them, she longed to touch and smell and taste each battled stain. Become me, engulf me, drink and swallow me in your pink mouth running with the saliva that I slurp, drooling, when kissed. These stains of hers, my own; these thirty years of them embraced and laid claim. They are the earned steps of Jefferson Street, of years of whoring herself, of smiles that shine and eyes that flame.

Put me out; lay me in a boat, or on a blanket, or in a car, or on linen sheets; lay me in a street on clouded nights. Push hard, running me down a wall in clear magnifying flows that lay between your thighs and mine. I am only fluid that you expel; she cries to none who ever listen, who use and flee.  The roar of her; dammed and diked and held back; channeled and fed to the fodder of her hoped-for; her gated tsunami flood.

She weeps in anger; she is the wet.

© Amanda 2014
Image: ".future primative." by © 2014