Lesbian Stonemasons of Peru

Music
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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

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