What is sacred to you?

Moonlight cascading off your skin, ricochets

Around these walls, off the glass and steel of this city

My fingers compose music down your ribcage, 

We are seven floors up but I want to go higher—

I want to climb inside your mind

Experiencing this new-new novel

                                      whose tone and words and plot line I’ve never read before. 

 

You intrigue me. The discovery of someone else’s mind is like that. 

It’s funny how I know before I know, that yours is a mind I like

I want to fall into its depths 

Take residency in its nuances  

Sure, your face, that body; they’re my aesthetic 

But your mind, that mind. 

I could deep dive 

I could languidly reside there for days. 

 

this

It is sacred to me

Our beginnings, our endings

Our nights with no in-between

Infinite nights upon

Infinite days

When they meld and marble into one

this beautiful, inimitable pattern

 

I see it all

as the pixels of your voice diffuse around me 

it is grand and it is new and it is heady

and it is wondrous and it is nascent and it is unwritten

we are moments 

we are years

we are decades

the mundane, and the unseen

and the delicious, improbable, unlikely 

that makes perfect sense. 

 

what is sacred?

it’s been playing on my mind lately. 

It changes over time

what do you guard?

what do you protect?

What do you set an impenetrable boundary around? for your own good

I’m acutely aware that exposure oxidises.

But sometimes, there is something so freeing about letting the light in and

    the teal copper goes when it has weathered the elements is, to me, more beautiful than

when it’s new 

 

But this, our beginning

I think the beginning is sacred. 

it is vulnerable in its newness

in its nascent growth 

one-on-one is sacred 

The space between us, the time between us, the conversations between us. 

Are sacred to me. 

 

  ~ Jennifer McGeever

 

Instinct on a Full Moon

 

 

I felt it in my heart.

I held it in my gut.

He whispered to me—

The truth before you told me.

Before you mustered up enough

Strength, courage, boldness.

To let me know yourself

 

How did I know?

Is it because I’m woman?

And you’re male.

Is it because I hold a heightened power of intuition?

(That’s too reductive).

 

Or, is it because I’ve seen you before?

You’re a déjà vu of other men,

Who didn’t have the tenacity.

To hold the truth. To tell the truth

So instead covered it up with half-truths

And an opalescence that they thought was

so distracting, I couldn’t see through the shimmer and the shine.

I do like shiny things.

But

that’s why I’m a connoisseur of the real from the fake

Did you not know? You can tell a real pearl by its grit

When you bite down on it.

That’s a fact. For real. Proof of authenticity.

 

Let me tell you the truth.

It will set you free.

I saw it before you knew it.

I saw it coming weeks in advance.

Because I hold intimate knowledge of you

I’m no fortune teller. I don’t have the gift of foresight.

But—I am a woman who runs with the wolves.

Insight told me, miles ahead of you

Because I am not afraid of the wild,

Or the rhythms of the moon, that dictate change in the tides.

Does it frighten you?

Because I see you for who you are, and I’m not afraid of it.

I don’t walk away without asking you first to look me in the eyes.

Because I could push you stratospherically out of your comfort zone?

“Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence,
without you moving, slicing the noon
like a blue flower, without you walking
later through the fog and the cobbles,” (Neruda)

—I guess you will see, as you feel me walk away.

 

By Jennifer McGeever

Written on the night of a full moon, feature image taken by Florence Chau in Vancouver, Canada.