Bright clusters of roses in the backyard drip with dew. Photo by Nico, June 2021, Providence, RI.

Incursions into an erotic eco-poetics

Poetry Jun 9, 2021

Happy pride! My sexuality is apparently trees now :)

sorry for screenshots of poems, but it’s very hard to present them as I want, with the proper line spacing, online. a pdf is accessible as well here, and audio of me reading!

Erotic Eco Poetics

three poems:

*Quote in italics is from Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass, “The Three Sisters”

Leaves bunch in wet mounds across the squelching path and picking  between puddles I’m suctioned into their musty embrace. Dense breath  gently undifferentiates from earth worms, soft logs, fallen veins of red  — golden — orange — purple — green — strewn about a weave most complex,  so losing myself in soaking leaves I’m wrapped, enraptured by bog,  attuned by the slick drip-drip of branches softly releasing their sweat  we watch each other, forget ourselves, chase through the boughs, as  birds squabbling — or fucking — I can never tell the difference: the mud  wanting my thighs.

Practice: teasing embodied experiences — out of memory.

Wanting to be fucked by the dirt is distinct from the discomfort of  fucking in the dirt. Though when you took me by the cliffs it wasn’t so  gritty as good filthy, pushed me up against the looming sand, moved in  and out of me while the sky spread massive ballooning like loot above  us, so what I’m confusing you and me, or remembering the ongoing if I  wanted you or to be you, so what I was you, were fucking me, cliff,  face, crumbling, knees, sharp, breath, dust, hold. Who cares who was  doing the fucking? Who’s cum all over the chalky white beasts of rock?

No, I’m thinking about the erotics of my child’s play: making  passages in the sandbox, great constructions of mud to be filled,  plunging, tumbling, with water. Not so much castles as networks of  tunnels, telarañas en la tierra. When my pants came home ripped stained  nearly eviscerated every evening.

But now I’m wondering about being fucked by the forest itself, and  with it comes a dream of intimacy, privacy with the land, yes, being  possessed by the land, rather than the fool’s errand of possessing.  Could the woods/words claim me, and then make good on it? Consummate  with slithering, ladybugs, wrapping, boughs, bogging, moss— what if I  went out there and covered myself in it, who would be getting (me) off?

See: sex in the field of power — of course it’s political — it’s always about land.

Is fucking the earth/being fucked by the earth a dumb  over-simplification/literalization of dissolving the divide? What about  being fucked as the earth. As in, my fucking is already the earth  fucking herself, and me being fucked by the earth, even though I’m the  fucking operant? Redefining human and land and interconnectedness and  our/or the relationship through an erotics of nature writing, an  eco-erotics. Fuck me, roots. Come on baby. Let’s go:

I’m not interested in self-righteousness. Holy-

wonky nature poems.

I’m turned on. I turn

on. I want to protect the forest

because I need enough

forest to fuck myself in peace

in. Dissolve, you, into my soft

compounds   my an/atomic.

Workshopped in/with found text from “Sex | Gender | Autotheory”  workshop with McKenzie Wark, hosted online by Wendy’s Subway, Saturday,  April 24, 2021.

Thank you for reading and supporting, always! Much love.