he says such love is not natural
for a woman. look more closely,
at the scars from when I bought
those lies, with my own blood.
now my hands drip with honey
which he calls poison.
but the hypocrite also hopes
to hold women; just doesn’t want
them to hold me. look closer,
at the kingdoms my woman built
for us from jagged Yazoo clay. love
sings with us, but will not hesitate
to raise its voice when he unsheathes
his Bible to dagger us. this revolution
woven in our hearts howled when
we could see but a sliver of the moon
and the light it heralded. the sky spills
with starlings that whistle whether
or not my lover is a man or a woman.
this is what I tell him, and he admits
his surprise that we not only live but fill
our mouths the same holy bread, harvest
the stars with our families, blood lit with
the refining kind of wildfire.
By Amy Lauren
Amy Lauren is a graduate music student at Mississippi College. Among other publications, her writing appears in Sinister Wisdom, Wherewithal, and Lavender Review. Her debut chapbook, Prodigal, received publication through Bottlecap Press in 2017.