Created and contributed by Chris B.
Despite my lack of baby-making parts,
I felt at home among the lesbian constituency.
I just wore a shirt that said, “Man Diva”
and sat at a table between two large latte cups
that rested like stone lions at the art museum.
I heard stories of yoga teachers and car accidents
from a man that shape-shifts between guru and protege.
I browsed the wiggling tattoos, both new and seasoned;
inked metaphors of flags and peacock feathers.
There was a Gothic supermodel at the head of the table
and a warlock selling jars of margarita jelly.
An alabaster witch caught loose bird feathers in the air;
saving them in the hopes that they grant future wishes.
I clutched a box full of tarot cards and stone energy.
My eyes focused on the evening’s meeting notes
with talks about transformation and community.
Yoda’s cane became the talking stick that was passed to me,
that I should testify like old Southern ladies at tent revivals.
We spoke of springtime renewal and tofu potlucks.
We had visions of Cadbury Eggs dancing in our heads.
I decided that I like the caramel ones the best.
The presence of a mindful Goddess of Appreciation
carried the audible flow to the moment of a future gathering;
a circle of love and trust with the bittersweet scent of sage smoke.