Peer Review by Love, Rose (United Kingdom)

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The Poetress and Her Muse (Republished for Peer Views)

By: R.j.Elsewhere


The milk which the moon drips is what we bathe in. Together with lips, swollen and locked we manifest a space where only we exist. It is as if the heavens where to seal the air were our mouths meet, with silver wax and gold clay. 

We drink and you hallucinate; my halo, my grace. It’s the way my hair curls and rings, you say, which captures my holy. 

You believe, that black women were sculpted from an ancient, starless night-sky. And I smile and agree. For, it is us and our sisters rights to hold starlight between our teeth. Our right to decide whether or not, lost desert-men find their way through the thickest, cruelest of twilight. We decide their fate, their futures. It is our hands which hold the diplomacy of the great constellations, and it is Black Women who hold the power that could guide the sailors and seamen who dare try to conquer both land and sea. They don’t all survive. The zodiacs which stain the bellies of our palms an ashy-star-white, say so be it to their destruction and demise.

It is the time after we bathe that is somewhat more of an intimate affair.

Together we lay naked in a bed of rose petals and sheep’s wool, where we read poems of lost and hidden lure. Tales about creations, do we favour. For it is said that before God gave her hands to Michelangelo and all the other useless white men, her last image of true beauty were the marble minds and bodies of women. We continue to dine on writings envied by time and stolen by languages long dead, but we are more then divine. These details we drink are our birthrights. They flow in a gentle art down our minds and to our open thighs. Archaic knowledge lay like the honey and sweet that do between our legs.

A finger or three and that too, flows. But with you, and the nude of your nails, but black of your eyes, it rather raptures than flows. And I collapse, like an old star, in bliss and blessing. By the time you are done with me, I am but a violent wreckage, and you take me in your arms and have me sink. There is nothing gentle when we are tangled together in moments of love.

Only passion and magic and myth.

For you, dear, I am so full of our love I can barely eat. But how can I say no when it is your hands that chooses to feed me? So, carry on - let your fingers, the slim, pretty ones part my the full of my lips. Have them stuff my cheeks fat with honeycomb and fig. I want to taste the prints of your fingers along my wet, sticky tongue.

The torture of angels, you claim love to be in a world poisoned by the law and word of Man. But I could not care whether love with a man is the torment of feathered holy-things, things with a countless amount of eyes that glow in the hot fiery of forgiveness and justice. I am too busy to think about anything or any man.

Why would my mind conjure something so sour and concrete, when i could, instead, be full and drunk on the sweet and soft of you? 

My dear poetress.

I am too busy mouthing the dark stretch of skin between your breasts. Too busy sucking even darker marks at the warm, beat of your neck.

I am too busy loving and being loved by you, to care about the world. 

So, my little dove-love of lyric and song; tell me something.

Whisper it, in the shell of my pierced ear. So quiet - mouse-quiet, that if others were around to see, they would believe your words hold treason in the highest degree. 

That the only love letter, only poem, you will ever write, will be printed with teeth marks and inked with barely-there kisses, and, that it is my skin which you treat and use as paper to ode this declaration of forever-pure, romantic affection. 

Whisper me this, and I will rumour to you that it is only you, and you alone, who I take to bathe in the moon’s milk with. That it is you, and only you - even in this age of condemning law, that I choose to defy the God of Man for.

Let our love write a path and promise to future women and to those who own their hearts. Let them never forget the only true lovers of the 7th century.

For, I would rather take hold of my ribcage and let it split in two and have the world bare witness of my bare, taken heart, and have them read aloud the name chiseled upon the glass, red flesh of it. 

For, how could I let the world forget such a clever, little beauty as you?

My Dear Soppho. 

The need for inspiration makes the writers, even one as good as Sappho. Also, if you don’t know who Sappho is, please pick up a textbook. She’s basically an ancient OG member of the LGBTIAQ+ community, and some would go so far to say, founder of the Lesbianism. Plus, a fucking goddamn beautiful poet. 

Message to Readers

please tell me how you feel about the piece, plus I would really like and appreciate a peer review. Thank you :)

Peer Review

holy moly - rarely i come across things that truly inspire me - this did, honestly so beautiful and magically written and the history is so rich and magnificent

i'd love if you think it would work in another piece similar to add a bit of dialogue - think that would be alluring

Reviewer Comments

please please keep writing you are truly amazing