--

 

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.

 

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

 

 

skipping beats

 

skipping beats

--

This is a divine darkness that they pulse back and forth between them. The goosebumps that run a circle around her nipple when she imagines her name in his mouth. The open window of his voice that she wants to crawl inside when seeking shelter. The slick fingers that make their insistent way inside her. All these shared whispers that swirl like hurricanes; she longs to cram them into a glass bottle, later smashing it to smithereens when it's time to break this silence. 

He lives on the ocean floor. She braids cinder blocks into her hair. 

 

image.jpg

image & text © Jennifer Summer 2015 

52 weeks words & images | week two

 

time travel

Go deep within and sprint back toward her in your mind; the girl child self.  Watch her from a careful distance through eyes that have witnessed her own eventualities, searching her skin for scars she hasn’t yet earned, faint fingerprints of lovers still unmet.  Smile quietly when you see her exhale a large breath and jut out a tiny tummy, imagining how her body might wear pregnancy.  See the hair in a messy, shiny ponytail that flops around on top of her head, pushed out of her eyes, before the haircut that will strip it all away, taking a tiny piece of her spirit.  

You’ll want to warn her, prepare her.  But these experiences will mold her; they will teach her of her worth, of the power lying in wait in the marrow of her hips.  Give the only advice you can: tell her the only touch she can ever fully trust is her own, and sometimes not even then.

 

image © Jennifer Summer | 2015

image © Jennifer Summer | 2015

 

what my body was made for

My body was made to move.    Lean child legs painted maps of escape through dense woods; abused toes stood en pointe, calf muscles twitched.    Rolling down hills, chin tucked to chest, limbs askance; breathing hijacked by the rush of falling and the relief of stillness.    The morning stretch; fingers closing around thin air.    The tightening abdominal pull of deep, holy laughter; a savory rhythm invading the hips and demanding the answer of a dance.    A single pirouette reply to a note of music.     My body was made to fuck.    A wealth of hair to trap and pull, raising the heart to the heavens.    Teeth to drag against the pulse in his neck; a voice to beg.    Thighs to receive the streams of two needs, mine and yours.    A smile to break through the dark when love shows up.         My body was made to birth.    Stomach morphing into moon, aching pelvis and sleepy mind.    Breasts filling, lotus blossoming, opening up; the blinding agony of a conjoined universe splitting in two.    The cherry-red tie that binds during those first moments that will never look like any other moment; as unique as flakes of snow.     My body was made to resent being told what it was made for.         It rejects the construct of knee-skimming skirts declaring an antiquated purity.    It protests against labels; it balks at the promise of being made whole only upon finding its soul mate or of reaching nirvana solely through gleaming strings of lovers. It kicks in the teeth the assertion that motherhood defines true womanhood and it rages against the notion that balancing a babe in each arm while milk flows from its breasts contradicts authentic feminism.    My body denounces all intruders, all preachers, and lords.    It banishes those who seek to inspire shame or fear; it snuffs out the flame of self-loathing.     My body accepts only what warms its bones and pulls euphoria from its lungs.     All else is cast out and burned to the ground, feeding the earth with ash.

My body was made to move.  Lean child legs painted maps of escape through dense woods; abused toes stood en pointe, calf muscles twitched.  Rolling down hills, chin tucked to chest, limbs askance; breathing hijacked by the rush of falling and the relief of stillness.  The morning stretch; fingers closing around thin air.  The tightening abdominal pull of deep, holy laughter; a savory rhythm invading the hips and demanding the answer of a dance.  A single pirouette reply to a note of music.

 

My body was made to fuck.  A wealth of hair to trap and pull, raising the heart to the heavens.  Teeth to drag against the pulse in his neck; a voice to beg.  Thighs to receive the streams of two needs, mine and yours.  A smile to break through the dark when love shows up. 

 

My body was made to birth.  Stomach morphing into moon, aching pelvis and sleepy mind.  Breasts filling, lotus blossoming, opening up; the blinding agony of a conjoined universe splitting in two.  The cherry-red tie that binds during those first moments that will never look like any other moment; as unique as flakes of snow.

 

My body was made to resent being told what it was made for. 

 

It rejects the construct of knee-skimming skirts declaring an antiquated purity.  It protests against labels; it balks at the promise of being made whole only upon finding its soul mate or of reaching nirvana solely through gleaming strings of lovers. It kicks in the teeth the assertion that motherhood defines true womanhood and it rages against the notion that balancing a babe in each arm while milk flows from its breasts contradicts authentic feminism.  My body denounces all intruders, all preachers, and lords.  It banishes those who seek to inspire shame or fear; it snuffs out the flame of self-loathing.

 

My body accepts only what warms its bones and pulls euphoria from its lungs.   All else is cast out and burned to the ground, feeding the earth with ash.