I, Woman of Joaquin, spent
a quiet, speechless life,
frontier tin-roof homesteader,
moonshine cooking in my Jilly still,
fertile topsoil grows potent potato
whiskey,

sheep tallow candle lights my
way to womb renewal, the intoxicating
smell of breathable leather, anebriated on
a woman's hide, at my side-oats grama dispersing
seeds, hiding secrets of a legendary time in history when
only vagabond wind whispered of two women's passion,

the pioneer spirit of the sexually
emancipated woman entirely meaningful
when making lye soap to cleanse the prairie
grouse of double-standard flight,

and so I, Woman of Joaquin,
have love feelings for you from
when you were a pretty woman
stranger before I, Woman of Joaquin
knew you were a prolific woman writer
who caused an uproar in Colorado's West with
your novel of womanly outlaw-iron branded chapters,
said such as inspiring and interesting for women today,
said such as having raised a generation of daughters who expect to be equal in this century and participating in the
work of a woman's life enduring prairie fire, to appreciate
our survival, we know what we have endured, to create, we must know all that we have historically created to understand our growth, we must examine our historical roots where frontier moons were carved on women's outhouse doors,

and so I, Woman of Joaquin,
have love feelings for you, saved
up the ashes to mix with water for
soapmaking, the rainbarrel where I
wash your dull calico dress, and with
no bleach, I put a piece of blue calico
to blue your white calico, and make your
calf-skin topboots for wading through the
religious and political mud of this century...
I, Woman of Joaquin...


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist