Janice Krasselt Medin
are no secrets here in this room
as I drift, wine in
from one cluster of women to another.
I long to dive
into luxurious caves
and feel soft arms around me. Who
not understand that need?
most here, I had a mother who wanted
another kind of
had crushes on boys, giggling
names like Josh or John, not Rachel
or Sarah. She
as I stayed a tomboy, the boys
best friends with whom
to shoot pool or rifles, or talk about
But I married, later left that nest
admitted to myself my love
of women. Others here accept
wallet in my back pocket, my swagger.
Old facades fade, and I
a love of nurturing the familiar:
breasts, soft lips, curves.
How amazing it is to make love to
made like mine, to taste the female of myself.
monitor showed 3rd degree block--
a heart rhythm where the
atria, the top part
of the heart, beats separately
ventricles, the bottom,
like random thoughts,
connecting to another,
the next two or three
The patient was 60 years old,
not a young
with kidney and liver disease,
a pacemaker buried
inside her chest
like a sunken vessel at sea. Its
refused to spark a beat of the ventricle.
she was dying,
her blood pressure like air in a tire
lower and lower, and lungs filling
with fluid. When her heart
to 40 beats a minute, her eyes grew wide.
couldn’t believe her brain received
enough blood to feed
this the time to pray?”
answered in unison, “Yes.”
marvel how during sleep
we tangle together like a tight
a lovers’ knot they call it. Even
turn, we always hold on
to each other so we are one.
we wake at 3 am and talk
as if the night belonged solely to
we try to forget in four hours,
we will be swept away
from each other.
Your hands touch my breasts, my thighs,
every time I touch you in return,
the wonder of our first time
once again, a light both of us
had never seen
before. As we
celebrate that first night, we know
memories of our touches
will return us to the shelter we have