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<h1>A Summer Solstice Spell for Prideteenth</h1>

<p><em>A note from adrienne maree brown: Junauda is a delicious person who makes every conversation a space of revelation. Poet, creator, filmmaker, and writer of poetry and YA sci-fi queer romance!</em></p>



<p>Be thirsty for yourself,&nbsp;<br>Your wet-feelings-soaked self&nbsp;<br>you been thirsty for so many others<br>seen oasis in them<br>ventured (<em>escaped</em>)<br>from the shores of your own wetness,&nbsp;<br>your own waterfalls,&nbsp;<br>tidal waves, and delicate delicious depths</p>



<p>Mmmm… just be honeyed&nbsp;<br>waywardly spiral&nbsp;<br>within your own insides and<br>chaotic cliffs and backwoods<br>that whisper all of the shadows&nbsp;<br>and all of the dreams&nbsp;</p>



<p>Dreams are falsetto in the forest and&nbsp;<br>gospel at the shore.<br>it makes sense, when you show up unexpectedly,&nbsp;<br>over-dressed and dressed to kill.&nbsp;<br>You wanted a long catwalk from bush<br>to oceanic orgasm splash.&nbsp;</p>



<p>You take off the coat and fling it aside,<br>a silk and layered rhumba of ruffles<br>a long train of drama to be rid of,&nbsp;<br>in a decided drop off your shoulders&nbsp;<br>and that was only the beginning.&nbsp;<br>(<em>Excuse the ominous tone, but heed it.</em>)</p>



<p>The coat: sauna heat, a balloon of warmth and<br>handmade by your grandmas on both sides,<br>when they first arrived in this country.&nbsp;<br>15 years apart and 2,000 miles away, via St. Croix, via Trinidad.&nbsp;<br>Maybe they felt feelings?&nbsp;<br>Emo, melancholy island girls feels&nbsp;<br>Maybe their feelings were erotic and plump and secret?<br>Or a blaring collective knowing?&nbsp;</p>



<p>We retrograde to shores&nbsp;<br>they were told to leave,&nbsp;<br>because someone said&nbsp;<br>dreams are better&nbsp;<br>away from the wetness,<br>in the chronically distant, dehydrated oasis.&nbsp;</p>



<p>This catwalk sashay literally took 400 years,&nbsp;<br>We arrive and sit&nbsp;<br>neon-lit in the moonlight,&nbsp;<br>nude, goose skinned&nbsp;<br>and there is&nbsp;<br>a big jar of water with mango slices in it,&nbsp;<br>goldenrod&nbsp;<br>sticky yellow sweet&nbsp;&nbsp;<br>in the mouth, between the lips.&nbsp;</p>



<p>You know how long we gon’ drink that water?&nbsp;<br>Pour it over the head.<br>And suck more down our throat.<br>How thirsty is we?<br>How many eons?<br>Splash and pour the water down the chest&nbsp;<br>and tummy and down the pussy and ass crack&nbsp;<br>and it tickles as it cleanses.&nbsp;</p>



<p>Walk waist-deep into the water&nbsp;<br>and start wining and let the saltwater&nbsp;<br>succumb the accumulation of things that don’t belong to you,<br>a panic attack inside of<br>the jazz hall of a heart chamber</p>



<p>But make it xylophone and steelpan <br>re-home the graveyard and keep the music,<br>a sweet, soca, a quadrille, a humming.</p>



<p>Finally<br>wandering<br>floating<br>in your waters.</p>

<p>This article originally appeared in <a href="https://www.yesmagazine.org">Yes! Magazine</a> at <a href="https://www.yesmagazine.org/opinion/2023/06/21/summer-solstice-spell-prideteenth">https://www.yesmagazine.org/opinion/2023/06/21/summer-solstice-spell-prideteenth</a>.</p><link href="https://www.yesmagazine.org/opinion/2023/06/21/summer-solstice-spell-prideteenth" rel="canonical"/><p>Yes! Magazine is a nonprofit, independent media organization dedicated to telling stories of ... . Learn more at <a href="https://www.yesmagazine.org">Yes! Magazine</a></p><img id="republication-tracker-tool-source" src="https://www.yesmagazine.org/?republication-pixel=true&post=111368&ga4=G-74QJNNY44Z" style="width:1px;height:1px;">

A Summer Solstice Spell for Prideteenth

A note from adrienne maree brown: Junauda is a delicious person who makes every conversation a space of revelation. Poet, creator, filmmaker, and writer of poetry and YA sci-fi queer romance!

Be thirsty for yourself, Your wet-feelings-soaked self you been thirsty for so many othersseen oasis in themventured (escaped)from the shores of your own wetness, your own waterfalls, tidal waves, and delicate delicious depths

Mmmm… just be honeyed waywardly spiral within your own insides andchaotic cliffs and backwoodsthat whisper all of the shadows and all of the dreams

Dreams are falsetto in the forest and gospel at the shore.it makes sense, when you show up unexpectedly, over-dressed and dressed to kill. You wanted a long catwalk from bushto oceanic orgasm splash.

You take off the coat and fling it aside,a silk and layered rhumba of rufflesa long train of drama to be rid of, in a decided drop off your shoulders and that was only the beginning. (Excuse the ominous tone, but heed it.)

The coat: sauna heat, a balloon of warmth andhandmade by your grandmas on both sides,when they first arrived in this country. 15 years apart and 2,000 miles away, via St. Croix, via Trinidad. Maybe they felt feelings? Emo, melancholy island girls feels Maybe their feelings were erotic and plump and secret?Or a blaring collective knowing?

We retrograde to shores they were told to leave, because someone said dreams are better away from the wetness,in the chronically distant, dehydrated oasis.

This catwalk sashay literally took 400 years, We arrive and sit neon-lit in the moonlight, nude, goose skinned and there is a big jar of water with mango slices in it, goldenrod sticky yellow sweet  in the mouth, between the lips.

You know how long we gon’ drink that water? Pour it over the head.And suck more down our throat.How thirsty is we?How many eons?Splash and pour the water down the chest and tummy and down the pussy and ass crack and it tickles as it cleanses.

Walk waist-deep into the water and start wining and let the saltwater succumb the accumulation of things that don’t belong to you,a panic attack inside ofthe jazz hall of a heart chamber

But make it xylophone and steelpan re-home the graveyard and keep the music,a sweet, soca, a quadrille, a humming.

Finallywanderingfloatingin your waters.

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