Baker Speaks

I am a baker.
I am a poet.

Keeping Time

 You keep me up at the edges of the night
when I wake up
and I can’t breathe
because you are there
and it is what
I
want.

And when I met you
I couldn’t think past two weeks.
Now two months
are a solid wall
of grief.
Because your breathing in my ear
while I sleep is comfort
for which I’ll be bereaved.

For this love,
for you,
I’ll give summer my melancholy.
Weekends on Lake Michigan,
I’ll tell her how I count
in sighs and in coldness
of untouched thighs
the days
‘til you’ll be home again.

I don’t know how to ask for anything
but that you’ll come back to me;
even if reality has moved us
past these parentheses
where I am dewey-eyed
and lost
in time that’s kept by the wrinkles
in my bed
and crumpled ties
on the floor.

Just know that you’ll be gone
and I’ll sleep
to the song
that you hum under your
breath, until you return,
and
sing, little darling,
with me.

Because anti-trans discrimination is steeped in traditional sexism, it is not simply enough for trans activists to challenge binary gender norms (i.e. oppositional sexism) - we must also challenge the idea that femininity is inferior to masculinity and that femaleness is inferior to maleness. In other words, by necessity, trans activism must be at its core a feminist movement.

—Julia Serano | Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity (2007)

(Source: devotchkadebones, via projectqueer)

I could listen to this on repeat forever.

Good Lover vs. Good Shepherd

Part I

I can’t concentrate.
I just want to be on my knees.
I want your hard cock pushing up
behind me;
your fingers scratching at my back
and your nails grazing my scalp
as you pull my hair.
I want to know you could
sink inside
and extract a moan
all in the same second.
And, without hesitation
or question
I want to feel you pounding me,
balancing yourself
tugging my hair.
And the faster you fuck me
the more you grow quiet
and breathe heavy
and lose yourself.
Your hands release my hair
just
to come down on my ass
just
the slap of it,
the burn of how you take me
brings my orgasm to the edge
like I could hold it
like it is water and I can
bring my face to it.
But instead I hold my breath
desperate with the thought
that you might stop.
You’re close, too.
And you push me off my elbows
to hold me to the bed
like you love what you’re getting
from me.
So you slow
just to show me how hard you can
fuck me.
And, oh, the slamming
of your slickened hips
against my ass;
my ass that is still covered in the hot, red
trails of your hands.
And each extra second
before I feel the tip of your cock
recklessly buried inside me
makes me suck in my breath
and my eyes open wider
and I can only just shudder.
And I sigh a silent scream
and I feel your breath catch
as I feel your release roar
into endless little pulses
and your name is in a breath
I can’t yet take.
You hold my head down
letting each wave take its course
indulging the moans out.
As if waking to a song,
you bathe me in a look,
pulling out and watching
my responses pouring from me
as I am unable to keep anything more in.
At last we start to find our breaths.

Part II

Exhausted you let your body fall beside me.
Your hands finding my waist.
Your mouth finding my ear
to whisper “thank you”
like I did you a favor.
Your lips grazing my neck
to say “te quiero”
as if you didn’t have so many
ways of telling me.
And your fingers stroke my chest
and my belly
to the rhythm
of a long-lost breath
as it regains the calm
of your sweat-beaten skin
gently sticking to mine.
The pressure of your chest
on my back
feels like nothing
so much as a smile.
And your voice sounds like
more than a grin.
I hear you pull closer
because of all I could say
“you make me feel beautiful.”


Dancing

I like the way your smile shapes itself
into the brightest spots of your eyes
when you’re dancing.
Sometimes it’s subtle and soft,
other times,
it’s all I can see
and your hand then,
is mine.
Your hips against me
are rolling along to something
something like a beat
and something like craving.
And it shakes me free from fear
because all we are,
are dancing girls.

Sharing Poetry: Galway Kinnell, "Wait"

sharingpoetry:

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand…

Emotional justice is about working with this wounding. It is about inviting us into our feelings and our bodies, and finding ways to transform our collective and individual pains into power. Emotional justice requires that we find the feeling behind the theories. It calls on us to not just speak to why something is problematic, but to speak to the emotional texture of how it impact us; how it hurts, or how it brings us joy or nourishment. Emotional Justice is very difficult for many activists, because historically most activist spaces have privileged the intellect and logic over feeling and intuition. This is directly connected to sexism and misogyny, because feeling and intuition are culturally and psychologically linked to the construct of “woman”, a construct that we have all been taught to invalidate and silence. So by extension we invalidate and silence the parts that we link to “woman” in ourselves: our feelings, our intuition, and our irrationality.

—Yolo Aikili, The Immediate Need for Emotional Justice (via buscandoamalu)

(via buscandoamalu)

In Places Where You Can Feel Truth

I want to count on you

being all the things you are.

And know this to be true

as I lay down every night.

I want to sleep,

half-naked,

beside you and knowing

that you’ll never resist

running your fingers across my bare chest

in the earliest, blurriest hours of the morning.

I want to rely on the pressure of your legs

holding me

moving me

and finding me wanting;

always wanting.

I want the harsh, roundness of your French,

for you to count on me knowing

and not knowing

how close you hold me to your heart.

I want to count on the universality

of the romantic tongues that we share.

And I want to love you

and dance with you

and feel the moisture of your breath on me

even as you drift across the room

and I sip my drink.

Because I don’t want to hold too tight

no

I don’t need to.

I just want to be this one kind of love,

for you.

The sort you can fall asleep to

and want

in places like your legs,

in places where you can feel truth.