Lightening cracks the air, a mad scientist affair streaking across the night sky. Humid synergy paints the skin with perspired energy clinging against the shirt. We ignore the signs of the impending storm and head up the road to the Neighbor Wives.
“Where are the houses?” He asks.
We come across two houses where no grass dares to disgrace the front yards, exchanging 1950s constipated order of homogenous turf for a wilder affair of Brown Eye Susan’s kissing Basil while Tiger Lilies hug the invisible boarder between earth and side walk. I brush excited fingertips over Goldenrod and smile a “We’re here.”
Greeted by a wife, a fairy flowing among the flowers, ready with hugs she blesses our passage to the backyard as we are welcomed among the vegetable gardens and fire pit. Urban living transformed into the womb of mother earth, we seat ourselves under the pine tree to listen to the sizzling tease of Cunt Poetry. Wife, the neighbor, interweaves her wisdom between poets gracing the porch that has become our stage. To not love the woman, the pussy, is blasphemy under this night sky tonight.
The night progresses with cockle'd tongues coyly excavating the grace of being woman, being male, being a lover of all life that started with exploration of a thousand ways we can express our sexuality. There is no shame, no transgression into fear. The Neighbor Wives offer us a safe haven in their garden to share our golden voyages into loving the body of woman.
At intermission, the sky decides to open with her blessing, baptizing the heated air with refreshing rain. We find ourselves dry under the alms of the pine tree while the down pour turns into a flood. Then without notice the rains stop and we can begin again on our journey into loving ourselves.