Holy Wild by Gwen Benaway
my gookum said only the wild ones are holy.
bush in northern Michigan is the ancestral field of my body,
a girl who tastes of summer ragweed in the high heat of noon.
my body grows by night in secret, wet with yearling dew.
breasts and hips spread like bushfires in a dry season,
skin pale as moonlight at dawn, soft as a muskrat’s pelt skinned in March.
my mouth is a damselfly’s wings, iridescent breath on your sex.
my hips hold a cock the colour of crushed blueberries, bittersweet purple.
my breasts dart from your hands like minnows, chase deeper water.
my gookum said a woman moves like the sway of cattails in a June wind.
I lean to you like an otter dives, slick and glistening against your chest.
underneath the cedar of my thighs, past the birch tree of my spine
is an opening, a rattlesnake den, when you press your body in me,
the sound I make is a blackbird’s cry. here is the wild heart of me,
rush of heat on your fullness, this is the holy wild she made me.
a woman’s sex is as sacred as her land, my ancestors learned from creation,
a woman is as holy wild as her body’s made to be.
Maanii Oakes Response to “Holy Wild” 2017