Audre Lorde (18 February 1934 – 17 November 1992 / New York City)
Speak earth and bless me with what is richest
make sky flow honey out of my hips
spread over a valley
carved out by the mouth of rain.
And I knew when I entered her I was
high wind in her forests hollow
fingers whispering sound
from the split cup
impaled on a lance of tongues
on the tips of her breasts on her navel
and my breath
howling into her entrances
through lungs of pain.
Greedy as herring-gulls
or a child
I swing out over the earth
over and over
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