a curious, but beautiful oddity

i am so tired of vagina metaphors

oceans, wet things, flowers blooming.

fuckin a. seriously? 

so, for my “erotic landscape” prompt poems, i’ve not done that. send me comments if you hate it or love it or think it’s mediocre? here’s one draft, called clay: 

clay became a part of me

in childhood
bike crashes and
falls,
sliding

desert rocks
under the translucent death
of skinned palms
where
blood turned brown with dirt
dirt turned red with blood.

it grew with me
whispering Paiute legends of
Coyote
into my veins.
teaching me.

not in my throat
not in the box
not the sinews there
not their cello string tonalities

the trickster
had no humor for European classical

redandyellowandblue paws
he stretched my moon skin taut
made my mouth but
a flapping, constant wind
meaningless in its whistles
he trapped and hid my voice
outside of the air
weaved it into the fabric,
waiting.

until a keen move
glances slowly
warming the soundwaves
and strikes
the drum’s sweetest spot.
the clay bell body resonates.

into the night i

howl.

c. Angela L. 2012