It was a dry spring when the fireflies
faded in a week, the cicadas raged,

the burned grass sagged. Each fuck was a disguise
that we used to keep the earth new; outrage

those new gods who shrilled at acts that we did.
Back when curses called sin hadn’t had time

to drip down your thigh as two fingers slid
in and you named a love of vast sublime

stirring within you. The Mother Who Churns.
Because freedom comes not from cock-masters

or clit-cutters but from rebels who fuck
with their estrogen and grafted sideburns.

I love my sisters who look like junked bros.
Let’s love truth that is reveled in havoc.