Parable of a Female Orgasm

Part I: The First Bloom

If I am to be a woman, I will mythologize myself 

My red flower bloomed at 14 after drinking from a fresh water spring 

My best friend taught me how to clot it with cotton

The next day a Cherokee father and la raza cowboys woke me up with the sun to mount a horse that was still being broken in

Everything is an act of ritualizing, for what is still sacred? 

Everyone is free until it comes to making wishes on themselves.

Being of this earth is the only honest truth. 

Like a flower fades after it blooms, lloro cuando me corro

Shouldn’t we all feel bliss even if it’s fleeting?

The First Knowing: 

The first time I had an orgasm I was in kindergarten and underwater

Playing with raspberries pretending I had uncovered some special fruit in the jungle

I opened it up to taste its medicine and a seed popped out of the drupelet

It shined like that tip I had come to witness between my little rose’s lips

So I sucked the ambrosiac nectar and turned my fingers a serene red 

I’ve been stained sirenic since; invariably the ecstasy of me

always holding my breath, like a drowned angel

until I leak rouge

ring around the rosie, un petite mort 

I knew those brackish eyes would make me perpetually wet when they asked to take a bath

The magnolia tree is so ancient she predates bees

An immortal life partner in the beetles 

Built tough enough in her lady parts to find salvation in withstanding their chewing mouths

But she traps them overnight to cover their legs in her magical dust 

Lets them go be men again in the morning

I knew I should protect myself after I closed my eyes to rub myself all over his thigh 

The Journey: 

If I am to be a body, then I choose to be celestial

A jaguar made up of the rocks of forever old magma keeps me in orbit

Walks next to me through the trees and when I pray to the rabbit being chased by the coyōtl on the moon 

Una vez un hombre me invitó a su montaña en Tepotzlan pa’ ver sus jaguares, justo antes de sufrir un infarto 

Everything is an oracle, for what is still made for just me? 

Everybody’s got choices until it comes to design and the synesthesiatic sounds we agreed are words. 

Chance moments are all we really have.

I wait for an olympian love that feels like being the shooting star intertwined with a sky 

Why wouldn’t I be lucky enough to be pierced by a lighting bolt?  

The First Witness:

The first time I snapped a nude I was in third grade while having a bath 

Playing with another girl pretending we were movie stars with hot boyfriends

She grabbed my Barbie camera and snapped a shot

The flash tickled me like I was something worth witnessing

So we took turns taking pictures and posing like the Disney princess Meg

I thought maybe sexting could be sensually secure, the intersection of performance and poetry

always wanting to be remembered, yet accidentally perverse  

like a fragile sparkling bubble

sugar spice and everything nice, a good girl 

I knew I’d want to see myself through herculean eyes from behind a screen after feelings submerged under dark water 

A moon named Io is so hot she showers sulphur dioxide icy bodies 

At a high altitude the plumes emoted from geysers condense to a sleepless snow white 

Only droplets of water on her complex surface

A thin skin atmosphere holding in a story of fire and ice 

Hellishly volcanic she still has an earth-like cycle 

Let my rocks spin away while I revolve around divine timing 

I know that if I move differently, like just breathe, I’ll come clear across the right eye’s gravity.