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{In Celtic times, the female warriors would grant their male colleagues “the friendship of the thighs” as a way of making peace. They would set aside their weapons and war making and just be man and woman. Beyond god and goddess, before sacred or divine—we are human, first. Beyond the “war between the sexes” there are small countries where we come together and call a truce.}

 Thigh Friendship

We are in the in-between country;

we are at war.

The feel of your hairy knees

behind my smooth ones

comforts me—and you know this,

you use this.

It’s your last defense.

But I don’t want your comfort.

I want to play with my anger a little more.

I’m not ready to set it down.

I am not sacred;

I can’t be a goddess.

I am a warrior.

(I am tired of being at war with you.)

In the space between anger

and lust there’s a gap,

a place where we are both human.

Forget divine and sacred and psychobabble bullshit.

There’s a place where I can write whole novels

about the scent of your skin.

There’s a place where no one is on a pedestal.

It’s not in that field beyond rightdoing or wrongdoing or whatever that was.

It’s in the small of my back.

It’s in the curve of your jaw.

It’s in the late afternoon when we should be at work.

It’s the last light of day falling across my skin through the window

as I arch my back and rise to meet you.

Words fall away.

There’s a place where I can forget how angry I am

and stop warring with you for a minute

or two or twenty

or an afternoon.

I can’t be a goddess

(and I don’t want to).

But I can tuck you into me

and we can rock each other to sleep.

~~~

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