I want my body to rot.
Loose skin and sagging breasts
lips thinned by the years of laughter
every line untucked and carved deep.
I want to be so wrinkled and withered
that the AI can’t even identify a face
to smooth and plump
and your $86 serum drowns itself
in my crow’s feet.
My divine feminine doesn’t need
jade eggs or goddess codes
she doesn’t need to up-level
her mind, body or orgasms
by finally investing
in your five figure quantum transmissions
or finding a man to surrender to.
She’s an old hag
Sheela-na-gig
her vulva sagging to her knees
Baba Yaga
lighting your way
with a burning skull.
She’s the dirt between your toes
the thunder clapping on a July afternoon
the ocean breaking on your thighs.
She’s singing 90s R&B
with the volume all the way up
while going 90 on the highway.
I want my belly soft and supple
full from an appetite satiated
by giant bowls of pasta
Sunday morning lovin’
long naps in the afternoon
choosing a slow burn
over hustle
every time.
I want my success measured
in joy and rest and pleasure
in how well I protect my peace
and how much I savored
the small moments.
I am the wildflowers and weeds
fucking up the clean edges
of your manicured lawn.
I am a raging maiden
the mother who birthed all of creation
a crone witch cackling at the audacity
of being a dangerous old woman
and loving it.
I am Lilith crashing your dinner party
with an apple pie
after you invited Eve
to wash your dishes.
When I die
I want my body to rot.
Let me be good meat
for the vultures
until I am nothing but
bone and memory
and grind me down
into an ancestor of the land.
I want to melt back into the dirt
that gets stuck under your nails
and muddies your feet
good soil for the next harvest.
I want mycelium sprouting from my decay
feeding the oaks and ash
and psychedelic epiphanies.
I want to dissolve
back down
into everything
and nothing
all at once.
- Gina Puorro
Poetry book available at https://ginapuorro.com