Peculiar.
Embarrassing.
The phallus enters my lesbian feminist life
with the green stalk of a tulip not yet bloomed,
reaching up from my desk,
ringed by the warm blue walls of my sanctuary.

I did not expect this gift.

I did not expect the sounds like fish flickering in a stream
that escape me as my hand travels over your chest,
lingering on your nipples.
I know what you are thinking. But I don't wish for softness.

The white length of you opens to me
under the cold sky.
Your hand rises to the place between my breasts
and I have named you.

I had everything: a self born again and again in the mirror of women.
Alone, my fingers reach home through a delicate forest.
My story burns,
giving sweet smoke.