Deliverance

Dawn used to be deliverance. Now nightfall runs all untethered things aground. Perhaps when spring bursts forward, night and day will come into agreement – adding hours of soil work to stars.

Lately, the power dynamic of masculinity and the idea of feeling owned requires attention. Mourning doves match the sky.

Sap rises in pine like a lethargic realization that I can give more unto this existence if I can just be who I truly am. This turgid body need not do any more explaining.

Dry out the bones – crush them – and let them lift. I know what to do now but there is very little chance it will be what you expect.

The alchemy of two hands together transcends colonialism, beloved. Wanna take a walk together and talk about it?

From Hustling Verse, An Anthology of Sex Workers' Poetry, Jasbina Justice writes:

Witch, always.
I was always the witch. This is a word in a tongue that is not mine but will do.
I am terror when you make me the other, but if you stand with me I become
possibility.
Find me in the woods, sharpening my axe, sewing my bags and waiting.
Smell the blood. Lick the earth, and listen for my laugh.

Hair hungry for hands. Black lace. Oils of cedar and patchouli. Quilted blanket on the line. The witch is the gardener, lover and mother. I'm writing a new story now.