Alexa Doran is a poet/waitress/undercover lover who is working on her MFA in Poetry at UNCW. She likes to flatter herself by inferring that she is the female incarnation Dante. Until further acknowledgement of this appellation, she is happy to be finishing out her year as recipient of the Shannon B. Morton fellowship and to have recently been featured in both Ekphrasis and S/tick literary magazines.
Lesbians Don’t Need Luck, Just a Mean Left Hook
Oh, Goose. Is this what it comes down to? We watch the wind have its way (self-serving, petal fed), your forehead crumples to my cheek, the orange spank and curl of the tiger lily stirs, soft and dead. So much of us touched. How much does it matter that I count your nightgown as open—some strange crop? Like the never powdered face of Palaestra, goddess of wrestling, there is something bronze-bold in your kiss, smoke-spurred, unconquered by the male sex. Don’t call a taxi: let’s cement ourselves to this bench. Leave the sweat and sass to the men. Yes, let them feed themselves on the fight, while we stumble into Heaven. But it’s clear you’d rather play the impasto, pouring too much color, plotting to disarm. And what can I say but paint on; every goddess has their calling. Take Palaestra, pestered by peace, murmured one word, glisten, and men spun arm to arm, oil-veiled and stitch-stripped, inveigled to brawn by our patron lesbian. So I said you were a starling on a polka-stained night; we are what we are called you said, sprouting the corresponding wings and preening for flight. Box me out; dismiss this bloated anchor with its seaweed strap-on. One last kiss and I lift my face to yours (spring chicken sex versus saturnine glow), but before I can say the words, you say I know. Everything must come to this. First the climax, then the blow.