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.
My hair is simple.
She loves tangles,
Loves entwining with me.
The canoes on the river
Are justified by the running train
Of water beneath them.
What combination of lips and skin
Can we design?
Her hands flare me with sweet sickness.
Her teeth tattoo me
With impatience.
On the river banks
The woods grow up.
Seek my mind,
Steep it in honey.
Warm my thighs.
In the river,
The dead swim among the rocks.
Her tongue on my breasts
Flicks me on like a light.
Her hand on my belly captures my breath.
Among the reeds,
A rusting locket with one picture.
Through a slit in the magenta,
I see a carnality
Fanged,
Indefatigable,
Fiery.
Why is devour so female,
And pink so aggressive?
The ecstatic victim offers bouquets
Of breath,
Paralyzed.
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.
Summer sylphs repel me,
Slip away as though they were never a certainty.
I prefer winter women,
Fat with autumn and
Soft as snowfall
Their bodies as deliberate as shadow,
As lovable and mysterious as cloud.
Miniature Moon 