I am handled with kid’s gloves
at the end of ten foot poles
as if I plot to stab your heart
only to draw blood from your soul…
Your loving soul, now wounded,
spills love like a trail of pouring pain
over treacherous terrain
not yet washed away by rains of time and tears.
Although storms cleared
when I appeared on your horizon,
twice shyness in your glare –
I sensed you feared I might be like men from your past –
pursuing aesthetics to smash
instead of substance.
With ears of empathy I hear your pleas
and lay assumptions
at the walls of your defensiveness.
Make camp and listen close.
Offer nothing but a shoulder.
Keep my thoughts trapped in my throat against my nature,
as it takes the strength of ten to bridle tongue
and realize if you want answers from a man
you’ll ask for some.
So in lotus position I sit and I listen,
realigning my chakra system to your frequency.
Tuning in as your wounded spirit speaks to me
of trust, honor and loyalty,
of your lineage of royalty.
Teach me the intricacies of your dialect at your pleasure.
Seek in me the curator for the splendor of you treasure,
Train me with nurse’s skills to aid in stitching holes
men unworthy of your mercy’s tenderness left in your soul.
Let me bathe your mind with ideas
rich in essences of fruit.
(Not syrupy sweet words of deceit,
but the balanced flavor of truth.)
A dash of salt – it sometimes burns cut flesh,
but in the end delivers
succulence like salt in cocoa –
truth will neutralize the bitter-ness of taste
deception leaves in its wake.
Can you believe in men again?
Let me redeem my gender.
Queen, believe in me
-HymnAgen