divining

how i microdosed on mushrooms
early pandemic, standing candlelit
in the glass shower listening to Hildegard
and wondering aloud to Goddess about
my last lover with whom things ended
rather abruptly, to whom i said i love you
after two-and-a-half weeks, at the age
of 34, was it love? i asked her,
because i felt it, really felt it,
and in the steamed stall i received
the response, a resonant Yes.
so i went further in my questioning–
what kind of love? to which she answered,
Chemical Love. i continued to press,
but what about the emotional, spiritual,
were those aspects not part of the dynamic?
and i heard back, clear as day,
Spirit is in the Chemical.

internal maintenance

seeking animation
in a portal
that is dormant

willing forth

sounds that evoke
sensation

a grueling mastery

the quickdraw
of other contexts

how easy it is
sometimes
and how hard
others

still your mouth
tastes so good

still i shudder
at your wetness

still i hear myself
and wonder what
it means

how i felt the energy
when i was talking to them
and i crossed my legs
and turned my body away

i am a taken woman now
i cannot exchange such currents
so deeply

what it means to be kept
to keep
to commit

treasures on the inside

how expectations
cramp experience

a casual cessation
butt out gently
no harm no foul

back when you were
plunged with everything
no room to disagree

FLUSH void

how much i’ve associated
love with arousal
a seed is born
how sensational to grow
a seed, how utterly spellbinding

a garden unwatered,
blah, blah, blah
i want what is
ripe and unborn

where are you
little one, and how,
and do you want to be?

the question comes
again and again
what to do
with your body,
your life
stuffing pillows
under your shirt
like you did as a child

when i thought
i would marry _____
i imagined we might
walk down the aisle
to i have known love
by the silver apples

when i thought
i would marry _____
i fantasized that
our shared therapist
might come

sometimes i wonder
if i should just be
stoned all day
living god knows where
dancing to god knows what
release expectations
of an appearance,
career
tangled, broke
falling into a sodden hole
impetus towards seduction
dissolved into dust

the sheath that is left
is unfinished, and just
how it should be
no worries if
sapling never supped
no worries if
long untouched
to be free of the wanting
is the win
to wither in peace

petal porn

i tell mónica about the cum trees
and she said she didn’t realize
because she’s never smelled
that kind of cum before

she had a dream last night
that we’re sitting in the backseat of a car
and a guy is next to me
i reach over attempting to fondle his dick
she is naturally dismayed
more than that, deeply shook,
and wants to talk about it
and then i won’t

i tell her i won’t do this to her
then that i want to make a porno
and ask if that upsets her
“i don’t have to be in it” i say
then when she delivers me
my morning coffee she says,
“for my porn star”

i think about the porn star
martini and how sometimes
a little dose of champagne
is offered as a chaser
kat says many sex workers
were upset by “anora”
which i watched on a plane
wondering if the man two seats over
could see all the breasts on the screen
naked girls grinding and bending over
the saddest part to me
was when the russian oligarch
wily entitled boy-child
asks anora if she’s stupid
when she assumes they’ll stay together

when i told my mom about the trees
and their infamous odor she googled
“semen trees” from her perch propped up
in bed bradford pears they’re called
in high school rachel used to say
they smelled like rotten beaches
which i also share with mónica
as another qualifier so lush and pretty big
white flowers marking the turning of seasons
as neon green pollen coats everything
our cars painted, swirling in gutter pools,
dusting our shoes a various splooge

girl cum is different
not so viscous at least not always
what tree would smell like you
what blossoms echoing your elixir
she says the pink evening primrose
looks like my nipples
kat gets turned on by the pine
we sit in a ring massaging our breasts
petals falling all around us
erotic confetti we affix them
to our skin we dance to the kinks
“susannah’s still alive”
we cast the spell
and then go to cook dinner

Susannah Simpson is a multidisciplinary artist, performer, and poet, based out of Durham, NC. They are the author of the poetry collection, I’LL GIVE IT TO YOU, and poems can be found in bedfellows, the tiny, Day Job Press, Voicemail Poems, and the art book Pure Paragraphs. Their performance work has been featured in Ugly Ducklings’ Emergency Index. They are co-creator of the series ALL RIGHT NOW! combining art and ritual with the intention of collectively reframing our relationship to time.