Seeing is cataclysmic.
Hearing has rendered me mute as a portrait.
Beauty’s pelerine flows behind
my shoulder,
and the gift of slender hands
unties the bow,
to get to the realness of me.

I once made a mop from my hair.
Now it has grown back,
glossy but hollow.

In my nutrient dense curves
(where does a curve belong?
everywhere wrapped like
legs around a lover)
she licks lightly.

What She Takes

Behind fire,
Sweating desire.

I am a museum of makeup,
the art of the feminine,
the vision of seduction.

By my entrance,
no angel of any kind,
my soul in sackcloth.

Imperfection entrances,
greed entrenched.
She has feasted on the slick sheen
of my alabaster skin for hours.
Having had the skin,
now she will take the fat,
and together we will leave the bone.


On the bridge of her lips I consider crossing –
my hips a sailboat with no sails.
Behind me, daisies.
Beneath me, silk drenched with dream.
In the sweet musk of human frailty
I rollick like a ship to sea
when she gazes at me,
knife to meat,
erosion to beach.
Destruction never was so complete.
Spread open like an unread book,
I am searched,
My ecstasy excavated,
Preserved in her skin,
Dissolving on her tongue.


I am a marshmallow
She wants to eat,
Soft and sweet.
My long, smooth legs
A road.
Between them,
A cabin to winter in.

What is imperfect
In the sheer glossy world,
Is perfection here.
My soft waist.
My major breasts.
That soft place above my hips.

My cabin is small.
Her face at my window,
She lights a bubbly fire.


I am a Christian. I am happily married to the man of my dreams. And I am bi.

I have never acted on this impulse, first because of my religious beliefs, secondly because of the sanctity of my marriage.

However, I am attracted to men and women. Strongly, to both. Just to clarify, I never look at my friends that way, so if we are friends just know I am not talking about you.

For a long time I would not even tell my husband about this. When I finally did, nervously, he said he figured as much. That relieved me and startled me. Was it that obvious? I wanted to keep it private, keep it secret.

Since then it turns out that I have been able to keep it hidden. My mother suspected something when she read a poem I wrote, but that’s it.

We live in a culture (in the United States) where various sexualities are accepted and even celebrated. As a Christian though, I simply cannot celebrate. I accept myself. It is not a sin to be bisexual, only to act on it. This is just how I am wired. I write poetry about it because I love beauty, and it gives me an outlet to express that part of myself without acting it out. But I cannot celebrate it.

It feels both nerve wracking and freeing to write this. I have been tired of locking away a part of myself, and denying part of my creative expression, out of shame or fear. I am who I am, and there should be a place for me in this culture, both as a bisexual and a bisexual Christian in particular.

More on this subject to come. I have many thoughts.

Woman to Woman



Her hair is so cool.
The bridge of her lips I consider straddling.
In the sweet musk of human frailty,
I rollick like a ship to sea
When she gazes at me,
Knife to meat,
Erosion to beach,
Destruction was never so complete.
Spread open like an unread book,
I am searched –
My ecstasy excavated,
Preserved in her skin,
Dissolving on her tongue.


Soft flesh

Pressable  everywhere,

Pleasurable everywhere

To be teased and tickled everywhere.







I am her and she is me,

sashaying in a voluminous dress,

100 percent feminine.

I fall in love with myself,

a monologue of fingers and sliding and heat.