In the Tradition of Women Who’ve Blessed Me to Transfer Their Virtues by Asa Drake

In the Tradition of Women Who’ve Blessed Me to Transfer Their Virtues
Asa Drake

I give you what I don’t have.
Strawberries in the mouths

of birds. Unopened pomegranate
blossoms devoured by ants. Fruit dropped

from unpollinated vines, all varieties.
Tell me the last time a flower wasn’t

the shortcut to desire. One year
in the middle of my life

I asked how full do I want to be.
Like hunger in the years before,

I asked fullness to be endless.
Every noise, I gave cause to.

An excuse to find comfort
in the sounds of eating,

the small soul cutting a summer
lawn. I hear the thrum and wait

in my hothouse for my dinner
to line up petal to petal.

Plant fruit I’ve germinated
in my own mouth. Let

the animals in. I mean
to say I’m in love

with that small mouth.
But I can’t call love out

without telling the difference
between one mouth in the grass

and another. Permission is a fruit
I’ve cut from the tree, meaning

I’ve taken human sacrifice.
When I say be careful

I want to use your hands
in place of my hands.

When I feed the animals
the rabbit stands up

so straight she falls over.
That’s the part I want

you to know. We are
that kind of animal.

MARGINALIA

1.
There is so much I want to pass on, and almost none of it is mine. Most days, I’m offering what I never received—love without condition, safety without prerequisites, and touch without recoil. Yes. Have you ever been touched by fingers trembling in awe for who you are?

2.
I feel desire everywhere. It spills out of me, even when I try to contain it.

3.
I want to be fed without shame. To lick the juice from my hands and not feel like I’ve taken too much.

4.
What does it mean to be tender and also devour? To love and still carry hunger?

5.
We are that kind of animal. When the body is too full of wanting, don’t we reach out for joy with both hands?