no tea no shade
I.
they know not
the swell of our queening, the magic of
kitchen tables, whiskey dewed glasses,
speaking wimmin. brash wimmin.
listening wimmin. daring wimmin.
wimmin trying shit out, together.
shouting each other’s names.
wimmin building. the worlding of
wimmin’s hands, passing time,
fermenting sequined desires.
the soft magic of felt, ink, thread.
the song of heels, skin, caftans, lips.
glamazon seedlings risen from peat,
dripping words hung
on a line to air.
they know not
how we dance in pages,
sew spines with fresh nails,
commune inkfooted in typed
flutters of entwined souls.
wimmin so lifted, floating, wanting
are dangerous.
II.
turn to the left.
behold the stage upon which we
sashay and shantay our fucks.
now turn to the right.
see how we walk,
painted for the gods,
with none left to give.
i have one thing to say:
do your thing,
girl.
those who fish haphazardly
in the gap will glance down
at their ways
and fall
Dani Spinosa [poet, scholar, publisher] 