Some boys call me Pretty.
Thank you. And while
I appreciate the radiant surface shimmer where the sky meets the sea, a divine
ocean stretches deep and vast within me. My sexy all unfurls past the heavens
into free and beautiful oblivion.
The angle of bone and curves in my flesh are fashioned like those of my fine
clanswomen. The stars in my eyes, the swirl of my soul shine with the life of
ancient flame-dancers and wielders of wind. There’s a strength in my back, a
sweep in my step like my ancestral sister – who carried a basket in one arm,
a family in the other, and will in both hands.
Some boys call me Sweet.
Thank you. And while
I appreciate the lovely zest of sugar & spice & everything nice & bright, the
layers to my flavor are as infinite as light. My essence hums and sings with grit
and bite, ever lusciously lip-licking.
The honey in my heart has been harvested by ancient aunt and bee queens.
I hold within me the sacred kindness and compassion of the great mothers.
But my good witch’s brew can be feisty, fierce, and sometimes fucking mean.
Like the crone cousins who came before, I’ve evolved a very low tolerance for
the taste of gags and splinters and bullshit.
Some boys call me Quiet.
Thank you. And while
I appreciate the golden silence resting in the spaces between, there’s a dynamic,
tumultuous tranquility to my be-ing. Turning, churning, yearning for a free-ing
to share the truth in peace.
I try to live in harmony with all that surrounds me, listening to the whispers of
hearts. But the yin to that yang, yells when yielded. Like for little girls who are
taught to equate etiquette with stoic stillness and pretend to be finite—to cradle
dolls instead of dreams. Pull the stitches from Raggedy Ann’s hushed mouth and
find she has a voice like a supernova.
. . .
For the boys who call,
Be aware.
When you kiss me, the lips you meet will speak and sing and shout. The mouth
will share breath, and everything.
If need be, it will rip through the crippling crevices of a narrow mind or tear prey
to pieces with tiger teeth.
When you hold me, you hold only the parts of the sum that I carefully choose to
place in your worthy hands. The warmth you feel is that of spirit and earth and air
and fire and water, wholly deserving of respect and reverence.
When you see me, these eyes, this smile, this chest,
You’d better look closer.
Because this girl is a woman, a lady, and a bitch. A siren, a jezebel, and a goddess.
. . .
If all you’re calling for, boy,
Is pretty… sweet… and quiet
your words will fall like a whimper in a windstorm.
Thank you.
While a Man,
like a mountain,
with a mind like a forest,
Who can compliment my brain more colorfully than my breasts,
Who knows there are times and places for fingers and tongues –
that rarely include shushing,
Who will sigh and cry and scream with me, run and play and jump with me,
build sandcastles and galaxies with me, a man,
with a huge capacity for loving and living and connection, and shoulders broad
enough to bear his own burden,
can call me
anytime.
Author Bio:
Amber Dawn Hollinger hopes to contribute something good to the world by sharing her work, which tends to have strong female leads. Her works have appeared in PoetrySuperHighway.com, S/tick, Rose Red Review, Foliate Oak; forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal and others. She holds an MA in International Relations - not writing. She recently completed her first poetry collection (S)urge and is working on new short stories and non-fiction pieces.
Thank you. And while
I appreciate the radiant surface shimmer where the sky meets the sea, a divine
ocean stretches deep and vast within me. My sexy all unfurls past the heavens
into free and beautiful oblivion.
The angle of bone and curves in my flesh are fashioned like those of my fine
clanswomen. The stars in my eyes, the swirl of my soul shine with the life of
ancient flame-dancers and wielders of wind. There’s a strength in my back, a
sweep in my step like my ancestral sister – who carried a basket in one arm,
a family in the other, and will in both hands.
Some boys call me Sweet.
Thank you. And while
I appreciate the lovely zest of sugar & spice & everything nice & bright, the
layers to my flavor are as infinite as light. My essence hums and sings with grit
and bite, ever lusciously lip-licking.
The honey in my heart has been harvested by ancient aunt and bee queens.
I hold within me the sacred kindness and compassion of the great mothers.
But my good witch’s brew can be feisty, fierce, and sometimes fucking mean.
Like the crone cousins who came before, I’ve evolved a very low tolerance for
the taste of gags and splinters and bullshit.
Some boys call me Quiet.
Thank you. And while
I appreciate the golden silence resting in the spaces between, there’s a dynamic,
tumultuous tranquility to my be-ing. Turning, churning, yearning for a free-ing
to share the truth in peace.
I try to live in harmony with all that surrounds me, listening to the whispers of
hearts. But the yin to that yang, yells when yielded. Like for little girls who are
taught to equate etiquette with stoic stillness and pretend to be finite—to cradle
dolls instead of dreams. Pull the stitches from Raggedy Ann’s hushed mouth and
find she has a voice like a supernova.
. . .
For the boys who call,
Be aware.
When you kiss me, the lips you meet will speak and sing and shout. The mouth
will share breath, and everything.
If need be, it will rip through the crippling crevices of a narrow mind or tear prey
to pieces with tiger teeth.
When you hold me, you hold only the parts of the sum that I carefully choose to
place in your worthy hands. The warmth you feel is that of spirit and earth and air
and fire and water, wholly deserving of respect and reverence.
When you see me, these eyes, this smile, this chest,
You’d better look closer.
Because this girl is a woman, a lady, and a bitch. A siren, a jezebel, and a goddess.
. . .
If all you’re calling for, boy,
Is pretty… sweet… and quiet
your words will fall like a whimper in a windstorm.
Thank you.
While a Man,
like a mountain,
with a mind like a forest,
Who can compliment my brain more colorfully than my breasts,
Who knows there are times and places for fingers and tongues –
that rarely include shushing,
Who will sigh and cry and scream with me, run and play and jump with me,
build sandcastles and galaxies with me, a man,
with a huge capacity for loving and living and connection, and shoulders broad
enough to bear his own burden,
can call me
anytime.
Author Bio:
Amber Dawn Hollinger hopes to contribute something good to the world by sharing her work, which tends to have strong female leads. Her works have appeared in PoetrySuperHighway.com, S/tick, Rose Red Review, Foliate Oak; forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal and others. She holds an MA in International Relations - not writing. She recently completed her first poetry collection (S)urge and is working on new short stories and non-fiction pieces.
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