gardening

 

And then she can breathe again, the fresh air of him plumping out her lungs, pillowing into her chest.  This is the only place where letting go is permissible to her, where she crashes into full surrender.  He pours his pulse down her throat; his tongue carves a tome between her thighs, and it’s the story of how this coming together is an orchid, blooming in aching night, forever free from daylight’s scrutiny.

 

--

 

Then at certain moments I remember one of his words and I suddenly feel the sensual woman flaring up, as if violently caressed. I say the word to myself, with joy. It is such a moment that my true body lives. - Anais Nin.

 

Dirty Pretty Things

Put your hands on my knees, she said, and think of me as a book you’ve been dying to read.

- Michael Faudet, Dirty Pretty Things

Oh, this book does things to me.  The most wonderful things.

52 weeks words + images | week eight

cage-free

He told her that her rib cage was big to accommodate the size of her heart.  Without the confines of those twenty-four ivory bars, it would take reckless flight, careening into passions that would leave a dull scar on its wings. Swooping down purposely, it would pull her along into the sinking mirrors of his eyes, part her thighs in response to the full lips that bite into her own.  Enclosure was impregnable, but less intoxicating.   And the safety is an illusion; the devastating consequence of a heart that never breaks free of its prison is that it dehydrates slowly. This heart speaks for us with brittle-boned words that turn to dust the second they leave our mouths.

 

© Jennifer Summer | 2015

© Jennifer Summer | 2015

52 weeks words + images | week six

 

milk

--

And we were the girls who were told we’d be ‘spoiled’ if we let anything inside us before marriage; a tampon, a penis, a finger.  Like a forgotten carton of milk left to curdle on a kitchen counter, light-swept with the day’s dying sun, our future righteous husbands could smell it a mile away.  Our sin, our trespass.  Our ache.

But what they didn’t count on was us finding something delicious in the damage.  We weren’t giving away our virginity, we were taking our pleasure.  And if it meant we were unclean, we learned to love that, too. Our lovers were leavers of bruises, blueberry-stains on our thighs and arms, they were the ladder of bites up a spine.  It was better than anything else God had yet to offer. 

We sat with our legs slightly open, we ate with our fingers.  We tipped our faces toward the sun.  We were the girls who would scream into the wind, who would kiss our sisters hard on the lips and spill ancient words into their mouths: Part the clouds, find your moon.  Howl.

 

image.jpg
 

52 weeks words + images | week four

growing out

It’s all still there, in your lungs; the living memory of every gasp you took in fear or elation or bliss; all those atoms that made up the physical response of a singular moment.  You swallowed them down and the seeds for these stories were planted. One day, that story will begin to grow.  It will wind its branches through your chest, creeping up the back of your throat, knocking tentatively at the door of your voice and it will wait to be told.  When you spin your tale, you flourish.  Those tiny moments become the roots that tether you to this life, this truth ripens into the breath of your song.

image & words © Jennifer Summer | 2015

image & words © Jennifer Summer | 2015


shooting arrows at the sky

 

out of my way
you missed with your magic
out of my way
you see, you missed with your magic
out of my way
you see, you missed with your magic
I'm fighting when you fallback
I'm shooting arrows at the sky.

- ‘Shooting Arrows at the Sky’ | Santigold