Love Poem to a Butch Woman

December 31, 2019

This is how it is with me:
so strong, I want to draw the egg
from your womb and nourish it in my own.
I want to mother your child made only
of us, of me, you: no borrowed seed
from any man. I want to re-fashion
the matrix of creation, make a human being
from the human love that passes between
our bodies. Sweetheart, this is how it is:
when you emerge from the bedroom
in a clean cotton shirt, sleeves pushed back
over forearms, scented with cologne
from an amber bottle — I want to open
my heart, the brightest aching slit
of my soul, receive your pearl.
I watch your hands, wait for the sign
that means you’ll touch me,
open me, fill me; wait for that moment
when your desire leaps inside me.

Deborah A. Miranda

Step Into the Blur

November 6, 2017

Stand firm
in your body: it will not melt
if darkness falls.

your soul, swaddle it, strap it
to your chest.

Your heart
learns faith like a song,
each step a chorus.

Realize: you stand
at the edge of all maps.
Fear is your scout.

You carry
your own light like a flint.
Strike that stone

within you;
sparks fly out, seek tinder,
catch fire.

In the blur
you do not fear dragons.
Out on the edge,

you are
the dragon.
Test your wings.

Deborah A Miranda

Psalm of no surrender

July 14, 2017

My destroyer;
Master of disguises.

Able to breach my defenses
with a single searing word.

Faster than adrenaline’s rush.
Stronger than a nightmare’s claw.

Creature of a thousand beloved faces.
Ventriloquist of every voice I’ve longed to hear.

Chameleon. Sorcerer. Stalker.
O, you deathless thing.

You track me down
by the stink of my loss.

You lead me into the eager quicksand,
make me lie beneath the beast’s belly.

You coax the iron from my blood
into your own shallow veins.

You bury me in the desert
of steaming asphalt, drown me

in the sewage of your monstrous language.
Shall I be your slave, your poet, your captive?

Will you be my god,
shall I have no other?

Must I worship you
with all my disgrace

and all my hatred
and all my shame?

This handfasting
works both ways.

If I am yours,
you are mine.

We go down
to the sea of no stars

with our wrists bound
tight as ticks;

we go down
to the sea of no stars

and you will not see
that silvery surface again

without me at your side:
your relentless, bloodied bride.

Deborah A. Miranda

Love Poem to a Butch Woman

October 11, 2015


Deborah A Miranda