I am not your Sunday
kind of woman.
I do my praying
on the run,
if I remember to pray at all,
and when I do pray,
it’s because I am shit deep in trouble
or I am so scared I don’t know
what else to do.
The truth, my friends, is the truth.
I like to drink my brandy warm,
not always in a glass,
which makes me feel more sexy
than I am
and a bit more powerful.
sex, alcohol, power...I understand now!
If you do, then my hat's off to you.
Sunday kind of women love love.
They milk it, bake it,
zip it up in fresh locked bags,
pull it out for family photographs
and stitch it up into quilts
but not me -
I want love to make me growl
hungry.
I want it to chase me
into storms, knock the moon
right out of the sky
I want love to open me up
with a clam knife,
suck up my innards, toss me
exhausted into a big feather bed.
No, I am not a Sunday kind of woman,
the Devil can attest to this -
he’s scratched my name on many a tree,
rode me hard through hell and back
and driven me like a chariot of fire
across God’s starry night,
What I am is a woman alive,
flawed, perfect, as warm as
the dirt I fill my hands with,
sometimes cold as ice
a woman to contend with
any day of the week.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
sorry ... but anyhow, with this in mind, do ya think maybe she is experiencing all that has ever been, for that's what the ocean carries, and that includes birth. The picture is birthlike. This poem is a continuation of life after a birth, and it is probably a lot like a baby's first glimmer of light, maybe not, but maybe . 
Have a great weekend! Don't fall off the boat 
S. P. ~
