Summary
Sapphic poetry, written in secret while sitting in the same room as my unsuspecting, homophobic grandmother, which is probably somewhere high up on the gay agenda.
April 20, 2025 at 09:02 AM
the muses sing their praises for you, my darling.
honey tongue; strawberry lips; melting
beneath your fingers as rome did crumble;
i am not so shallow that lust is my god, but,
my god -- sappho would sing for you too.
you speak so eloquently as if she is writing
on your tongue, where i should be,
and with all your gold
how could i resist?
the taste of revolution lingers on your skin;
perhaps the sweetest sin of them all
i was never one for religion, but honey,
i am on my knees.
pride falls away as does the muse's
drop of silk before the painter,
but i suppose there is a pride in itself
that i have been so blessed to have
you to worship.
oh, how i long to tell her now,
we do remember her
even in our other time.