The father of the man I fucked in a tent full of people last night is holding a walking stick
and wearing nothing but a purple sarong
as he zips and unzips the flap at the entryway to the smoke bath.
Juniper and cedarwood burn slowly in a red clay pot while a tan woman
covered in glitter does yoga at the front of the room,
her body bends backward, a horehound candy ribbon within reach.
I want a softer tongue, the kind that doesnt sing a wrens song,
I want to be a woman that freely bends, a woman with palms facing the sky or the top of
this gray tent, my eyes open only often enough to drink in the room.
I close my eyes and sit in Gods lap, whisper into his ear;
carve me a new lover from cedarwood, give him sage hair and
all of the energy you can spare.
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