The crow's
talon scribed
a decipherable
glyph on the windowsill,
but I won't tell, where my hard
apple cider rested, I was out in
vagina high crested wheat grass,
my pants just a few feet away inside
draped over my easel, I am this century's
firebrand artist, I had them there for the canvas
to absorb the crotch,

I stood bare,
my hands on
each side parting
my vulva guiding the
warm golden stream the
color of winter crested wheat
grass #162 Zinc Buff Yellow, I
dropped to my dimpled knees to
sniff,

my olfactory
memorized DNA,
the vulva scratched
into a rock face at Abri Cellier
in the upper Paleolithic period, the
clay triangle representing the vulva
embellished with an eye worn as an
amulet, would you wear my vulva around
your neck?

I climbed
back in my
studio window,
sat down on my
stool in front of the
mirror leaning against
my easel, and painted
my vulva #724 Dianthus
Pink the perfect scent of
the crotch of my pants mixed
with a golden stream warming the
crested wheat grass #162 Zinc Buff
Yellow on the palette, the linseed oil gasped...

Copyright 12/1/2009 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist