I will always be a wandering soul, condor in higher flight, I will. The finest storyteller I am, I tell you this story. The finest Lesbian stonemasons in Peru build retaining walls of limestone, granite, and diorite. They lay each other in uniform rectangles and regular courses, like bricks, cutting a slight bevel along each's edges. Even the most plain Lesbian stonemason escapes monotony.
A Lesbian stonemason can produce half a ton a day, from the same materials her ancestors used, silt, sand, and water, to make bricks for their Lesbian city. Take this as a sexual metaphor. Fitting two stone Lesbians together is tedious---a matter of trial and error---to achieve a tight fit.
Lesbian stonemasons will be remembered for their strength and character, achieving degrees of skill and beauty and through many centuries, we have shaped one another, transporting each over rough terrain, fitting each with seamless perfection, retaining our power to amaze!
The panpipes contribute to Lesbian stonemasons language. Ancient corn beer smells like apple cider. I witnessed your birth, condor and I hear the sandpaper hooves of the llamas packing drinking vessels and bronze prybars, tools of the Peruvian Lesbian stonemasons. Come with me, ancient Petra, to the next watering hole of women, as I strike out across the flint-strewn sand, and let me hear your voice made from the wing bones of a condor.
I find your image woven
into ancient fabrics,
your voice, a panpipe made
from the wing bones of
a condor.
In hat and poncho,
you herd llamas along a
wind-eroded ledge.
I am a brickmaker,
a lesbian woman, a
desperado, building
a brick gateway to
the sun, stylized with
motifs of the condor
and dice.
The condor and I
are one, lofty birds,
wide-wing seekers
of higher places.
The dice and I
are sexual gamblers,
We roll for you,
are your numbers
coming up?
When you drive
your llama herd by
my masonwork, I
see your nipples
protruding through
your white satin
blouse, your poncho
over your shoulders,
you're so hot.
I give you a dipper
of cool water and
trace my finger across
your parched lips, you
say your name is
Greensleeves.
I make a pair of brick
dice for you, stamp the
dots with my nipples in
the wet mud, imprinting
me to take with you.
You wash my nipples
with the brush dipped
in water after I stamp
each numerical sequence,
so that I may stamp
the next sequence
flawlessy ... one, two,
three, four, five .... six.
When the brick dice dry,
you, Greensleeves can rest
your nipples in the dot
indentations and we become
as one.
I find your image woven
into ancient fabric,
your voice, a panpipe made
from the wing bones of
a condor.
Renaissance.
Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist, brainchild of Sage Sweetwater Creative Properties, flagship of Stone Creek Woman.
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater
http://www.myspace.com/sagesweetwater
http://home.earthlink.net/~sagesweetwater/
Lesbian Stonemasons of Peru
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