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How to Love this Woman

by Therese FitzMaurice & Tim Lane

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1.
I’m sitting across from Feelings again. she is painfully unpredictable hardens like New Mexican dirt after a drought not enough rain to cleanse the surface her heart swings, ringing out the muck and dirt she runs it under water its red ooze, like a new tattoo slips in the folds of her fingers. I’m sitting across from Feelings again. she is painfully unpredictable Her grizzly hands claw about my thoughts tearing a whole in the map of my mind. She stares at me shape shifts sleek and seductive prowling with her quiet paws. I wait for her to pounce. The cage around my chest restrains her desire, but Raven begins beating her wild wings pecking wholes in between my ribs with magnetic precision. She is wild and unpredictable. I don’t understand who sent them or their purpose. My mother was a lion keeper. She tried to teach me how to live with wild beasts. Feelings reminds me that we were told at a young age that we didn’t need our mothers that birds could survive in cages, hippos in a pool of snot and snow cones she uses this zoo analogy like its something we can understand says we were asked to suppress her using drugs and cheap talk sticky sheets and sea foam Feelings says she is tired of only being free in the dark In the light of the sun, I cross my legs real tight like a lady should. high collar and tight buttons hair pinned back. yet nature is still tattooed on the nape of my neck and I can’t seem to escape the monsoon pulsing through my pelvis with electric regularity whenever feelings comes around. Why can’t we own loving ourselves? like lips to ice cubes on a cold summer day too hot to fight it too hot to separate wind from bare skin Why can’t we own loving ourselves? like lips to ice cubes on a cold summer day too hot to fight it too hot to separate wind from bare skin our own shark music rampant in tear ducts moistens us with water that we finally dreamt we would taste running down our cheeks Why can’t we own loving? like the way men’s eyes follow those silver beads that dangle turquoise dew drops down my chest. spread wide and extend past the boundaries of expectations where rain can leak pleasure soften the knotted chords down the back of my throat and open to the sound of feelings strumming on that which contains the members of this body. Feelings told me she granted permission to sunlight to use her taste buds as the bed for pleasure dissolving what is left of her lead body onto the roof of our mouths and in her offering she reignites a 4,000 year old desire to feel love to be heard to seek understanding in the depths of her soreness to know that every human face is looking for its own reflection and we will naturally gravitate to the way she moves the compass in our blood we will learn to forgive her when she is too much too unruly even for the Zoo
2.
The Raven 02:34
I know this Raven no one can see her, she comes and goes with the changing of the tides. I don’t understand who sent her or her purpose but her presence is undeniable. She is wild and unpredictable, she is perched on the inner recess of my breast bone cawing waiting to see how I will respond. I hinge open my chest and breathe spread my arms to the warmth of the winter sky stretching east to the sound of the sun rising. This is the inner landscape of the Woman I Keep to Myself: She is wild and unpredictable. She rises and falls from that which set her in motion. The good glad holy fluid urges her on she drives me to the edge of ocean cliffs the entire ledge about to give. I am trying to carve a space for her to live in home where she is free to reveal the wisdom of her body but I move to slowly she flutters through my blood stream stabbing thorns in my fingers so that I have no choice but to bleed across these pages. She doesn’t want me to keep this woman a secret
3.
sound of stillness i used to speak to god but i dressed him in a poet’s skin covered his wisdom with golden strands of untold stories. i imagined i was the story teller, running my fingers through his hair to unearth images i couldn’t paint (mining precious minerals to construct divine metaphors) then a nightingale sang and stained a rose red in the tree of my lungs, but when i went to speak the petals got stuck in my throat i lived in silence for years. i used to speak to god but i dressed her in a wise woman’s cloak. i studied her heavenly eyes and glimpsed my reflection in a tranquil pool of stillness. i imagined i was her apprentice training for some future sermon, bending my voice toward the sound of service. i lived with the anxiety of my expectations for years.
4.
The Gift 05:31

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released February 6, 2016

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Therese FitzMaurice California

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