Ambrosia
I want to drink my freedom like ambrosia from the hands and bodies and mouths of other people, not lock it in a cask to age and turn rancid. I haven’t yet held the body I would forsake all other bodies for, haven’t drank the nectar of a flower that would make all other flowers seem pale and limp by comparison. My skin hasn’t been caressed by the eyes and voice that I would feel naked without. I want to be kissed by the suns first rays as I lay down to go to sleep, I want to keep the moon in her solitary guard company. I want to dance in the rain with only my hair and arms and those of others to clothe me. I want to be the colors of the rainbow and no color at all. I want to walk barefoot through the alkaline flats of the desert and burn. I want to wake up, a stranger in a strange land, to learn as I did as a child, to be fearless and feared. I want to swim in waters the color of my eyes and drink wine like blood. I want to dive into waterfalls and land in the trees. I want to be bruised and battered, to be in pain so that I know I am alive. I want to be worshipped. I want to form my life again and again from the raw clay of my soul. I want my eyes to burn with tears. I want to know the smalls of my lovers’ backs, the hollows of their hips, the points of their jaws, the backs of their knees, the palm of their hands. I want to be held in the strength of a hurricane and ripped apart by tornadoes. I want to know betrayal and make her a friend and a lover, knowing she’ll leave when I need her most. I want to make love to a bank of moss, long and slow and sensuous. I want to pass unnoticed in a crowded room. I want to jump double dutch, weaving in and out. I want to know the untouchables, learn their stories, drink their tears and bask in their strength. I want to march to my own drum beat and dance to no one’s music save that of the pounding of my heart and the rhythm of my breath.
