Living Together


One summer weekend

we whirred together
French cream

a seamless blend
…when the machine


I looked at my lover.

I struck the machine with my hands.

We struck the machine with our hands.

I looked at my lover.
His eyes were a perfect cliff, and I’m
afraid of heights.

He had no explanation.
We had no explanation.

We struck the machine with our hands.


No explanation.

Just like no explanation for
rain, rainbow, cloud.

Just like no explanation

for what happens

when two people live together.


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Metafore: The Coining

When I was married to a beautiful man, that beautiful man had a beautiful partner. Her name was Cordelia. She was my metamour, a new(ish) term coined by the polyamory movement, a word which basically means: “the lover of my lover.”  Sweet, lovely, enchanting Cordelia. I loved cooking with her; I loved our time in nature together; I loved weekends when we shut off the clock and played and played.

When that marriage dissolved, I stayed in contact with her. Recently we spoke on the phone. I said to her: “It’s odd. I still want to call you my metamour, because you still feel so important to my life—but that term really is no longer accurate, you know?” And to that she replied, “You, my dear, are my metamour from before—so, that makes you my metafore!”

In a rush of happy giggles, we realized she’d just coined a new term. Here it is, world. Take it if you like it.


Dig this post? If yes, you might also like Opening Love, a spiritual guidebook through the challenges and ecstasies of polyamorous relationships.

I Have Cherished These Days

Making love to my lover is a salty breath of ocean. It is a bountiful wave of sea.

Our lovemaking, it reminds me of an important fact: any “my” we may use for convenience of speech is really a game, a human-made illusion. For I do not own him or possess him and he does not own or possess me. He is not my partner, not my lover…not really. He’s wave; I’m shore. I’m shore; he’s wave. We come together, for a time.

water-lily-lotus-flowers-plants-725x544Making love to my lover, I watch stars burst and flower—first, white round orbs, stable and solid—and then they vibrate madly, changing from red to green to violet, then melting back to white again. Vibrating madly, crashing out behind my eyes—bombarding my full body with their delicious flares, ricocheting against my lover, too. These stars came with us. Where we came from: which is not so far.

Living with my lover: it’s like a pause. Coming home, embracing him.

Remembrances: what we used to know continually, before we decided bodies. Back before there was time. Siempre. Living with my lover. There are moments when he’s washing a dish or kissing my wrist when his eyes and my eyes see it. We see. There is no name and yet every name. We are a tribe, a family, something deeper than… yes, I am trying language here, pulling at concepts and grasping at archetypes…but what does naming really do? If I voice such rough approximations, do I not (subtly) declare that I am not—also—that? That I am not also what he is? That we are not what we are? The truth is: There are moments not made for human words, moments where, for this writer, all I have is sand for roses. Damned gorgeous, yes—but insufficient!

What we need: to plant dark wet soil. What we need is the bloom of silence: automatic. Behind all words and attempts to know. Given.

Finally, in the list of our lives together: Loving my lover needs patience. His gaze is a portal for locked-away snakes. Growing together, we’ve been the rose in winter, been the birth of sky in summer. I cannot now nor will ever quantify. We feel immaculate and also stubborn. Both heart-wrenching, while deliciously free. Through his abiding presence, the making of time and direction (north, south, east, west, wherever), and what games we can spin of these. There can never be opposites.

Understanding the impossible, finally,
I have come to rest.


Like this? Awesome. You might also like Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook through the challenges and ecstasies of polyamorous relationships.

Recipe for Love



Drunk on orgasm, moan.

Drunk on knowing, not-knowing.

A recipe for love.

A recipe in bed.


Step One:
We do not know who we are. In fact, we don’t exist. Or, we might exist and be, simply, nothing. Nobody. The nobody Emily wrote of…the nobody of the poets; the nobody of the visionaries; the nobody of the seers and changemakers. The rebels with some beautiful, crazy cause.

Step Two:
Slowly, slowly, his earlobe and my finger. Touching. Touching. Nobody. My finger might be his earlobe. I’m not sure.

Step Three:
We’ve come a very long way in a very short time, he whispers. I nod. He knows I agree without opening his eyes. The lilt in his voice. This bed. The lilt. I could listen forever.

Step Four (Finale):
Drop into all possibilities. Here I am, in this faraway bed, in Ireland, with him, in this moment—but I am also in that other moment under the bridge, two days ago, in England, when the rain struck hard and the thunder fell and the boats in the canal seemed to bask in our mad kiss and grin.

We’re going to go down in the history books, my dear. 


Follow more of Anya’s mystical musings at or her book Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook through the challenges and ecstasies of polyamorous relationships. 


Diamonds on the Wall


I met you in Puerto Rico

I met you in England

I met you in Hong Kong

Lemuria              Mars



When I was a child, you kept watch
in my blue bedroom:
always a few feet off the floor—
always a few feet (somehow) above
mother’s screams,

and the posters

that would take themselves         down off the walls.

You protected me.


Lovely my love is our love
when we met
in the quiet,
when we met in the Zendo,
when we met in the street,     when I was with the priest.

And it is true
I have always loved you…go on meeting you…
way before
the terrible pop songs…
eons after
the ruffled,       pompous waltzes…

They never did teach me how to love you

and yet I’ve managed to

and yet I’ve managed to


But now
it is eternity…here…where we are,
and we dance in the garden of all seed:

the place outside of time
the place outside of chance
the place we continue meeting:     you

and me.

The place with diamonds on the wall



Follow more from Anya at, and her book Opening Love.


A Love Story We Are Writing

Being Lovers_painting

We are writing quite the love story, aren’t we?

It begins in England; it begins in the moors…lands of Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights: lands of smoke and hay. It’s a land we’ve been to, millions of times, millions of dreams, other lifetimes and knowings.

I am here to teach; you are here to live. We meet. It’s a city called Hebden Bridge, known as “the San Francisco of England.” Lesbians everywhere, holding hands. Old, wide, young, thin.

Hebden Bridge: where, on afternoons, soap bubbles blow from that charming soap shop: they say it’s their gift to the city; they say it’s for free. And, every spring, hundreds of plastic ducks on the river…crowds gather to watch the race and rejoice: ice cream, picnics, children, blue skies. This is Hebden Bridge. A place I’m not sure exists.

We are writing quite the love story.

In the beginning is you seated: dark sweater and a scarf you wear. A quiet meditation hall. I don’t know this bowing ritual yet, and so I find my eyes drawn to you, to your beautiful body, as you make the movements. I dip my head reverently to the wooden floor, which represents the Earth; I dip my head and rise my palms for Buddha. (Not in worship but in Yes. A state of connection and calm joy.)

There is no difference between who is bowing and who else. I have Buddha nature, so I bow. You have Buddha nature, so you bow. We bow to All. I keep looking at you. You are always two seconds ahead, to my right. I keep looking at you.

The story begins with your eyes and my heart. With hello, as you try, unsuccessfully, to dodge me. You’ve seen me with the priest…but you don’t yet know I am not his—not anybody’s.

Our story begins with a headache. My headache. I cannot yet face them, the rooms of expectant people. I am tired of eyes looking at me, tired of talking, tired of explaining what seems so obvious. It’s almost time for my book reading, and I’m dreading it.

Just ten minutes in the Zendo, I tell myself. Just ten minutes of meditation: that’s all I need, and then I’ll be better. So, I rise from the bed, shuffle downstairs, and push open the old wooden door.

It is you! You are there! You are already seated, on the old wooden floor. My heart is made of firecrackers. My heart is made of chocolate. In total surprise, I say: You!? We then smile two smiles that seem to join oceans.

We agree to sit together. At the end, you ring the bell, like you always do. You are the keeper of the bell; you are the bell that awakens us. I don’t remember what we talk about then, after we sit, but it’s something that flows. Some minutes pass, and suddenly we remember clocks: they exist. We say we are both reluctant to join them, but we do.

And then the story, well, it really begins with my card, given to you… And then your question: Want to take a walk? …And then, a few streets later, my question: May I kiss you? Your mouth is dry and you laughingly complain. We look around. There’s so much, and suddenly. The moon is big and the river is near. It is the end of summer. I don’t live here, and you do, so you show the way. We walk. I can’t remember if we hold hands at this point. I know that when we get to the bridge, we do. I remember resting my head in your lap. Your hands upon my head, so gently. I tell you I’m a healer. I tell you everything. No secrets, already. We talk of magic. And, after awhile, we walk a bit more, back toward the house. After awhile, you say something—and I fall to the pavement…because what you’ve said collapses time: because my legs, apparently, need time to function. I fall to the ground with ecstasy and with total love.

Back at the house, later, you kneel to write your number on a scrap of paper. While writing, you look up at me. I’m in the chair, so close, legs crossed. You shake your head, disbelievingly, and like a giddy child you say: I don’t know you, but I love you.

We are writing quite a love story, my love. It includes more things. The letters, the emails. The six-hour calls. The orgasms and dances across space and all that seems real. You and I in the forest, that afternoon. Those precious minutes. Back; forth. The label “partner”; the label “friend”; and how all that, eventually, not mattering. The now. The precious now. How your laugh surprises me still; how I’ve heard it all before. Some past life.

How crickets can signal not the end but the beginning of a summer.

How the bird who sings…

is singing for itself. For the song.


Many thanks to Julie Rose Clark, for the sharing of her beautiful painting featured above. Julie is an artist living in Hebden Bridge (West Yorkshire, England). Commissions taken. Learn more at:

Like what you just read? You might also like Opening Love, a compassionate guidebook through the challenges and ecstasies of intentional relationships.


How to Love An Irishman

3067e8a2ea074f4c1e6cf620c9af9891My lover lives in Ireland.

This morning, I prepare a fresh, green juice. Cilantro, cucumber, apple, celery, peppers, and a bit of lemon.

After dropping thumb-sized chunks into the black, whirring machine, a thick liquid emerges from a silver spout.

One of the final steps is to remove the excess pulp by hand. With a small wire strainer, my breakfast streams lusciously into a tall Mason jar. The juice is silky, aromatic, and the brightest of green. I don’t yet know how it will taste; I’ve never tried this combination.

Seconds later, seated on my favorite blue couch, a pillow across my lap for a kind of lazy-morning comfort, my head tilts back to receive the verdant drink.

Slow breath.
So this is how it is.

My lover lives in Ireland. He seems quite delicious. His eyes are on the computer screen; everywhere.

And yet I don’t know.

When I was a girl, my mother and father would play Irish records, especially near Christmastime, and especially when they were happy. I grew up with the fiddle, flute, bagpipes, broadcasting the silent yet palpable message: We are sometimes happy here.

 My lover lives in Ireland. He has no body. We are together, and yet we are a floating atomless mist. An everywhere.

Once, long ago, I told my mother: I will fall in love with an Irishman.

My lover and I use the phone; we mail letters. We send “psychic packages” to test and expand our intuition. (He guesses what I’m thinking at two o’clock; I guess what he’s thinking at three o’clock.) We schedule video calls. We see each other’s face. We watch mouths move. My lover lives in Ireland.

I was writing a book about love, and he offered to read a draft. Flipping pages faster and faster he had said to himself, Oh—her!

Now he recites poems to me, in the sexy, subtle accent of one who has also lived in America. Voice-to-voice, over the phone, or recorded onto messages while I slumber. Irish poems I don’t know by Patrick Kavanagh. Poems we both know: Dickinson and Yeats…

When I told him I loved him, it was in a dizzy breathless way. Girlish. A flabbergasted release. Almost a tizzy. Then, an endless pause.

We made love on the phone that night. When it was over, neither of us wanting to hang up, something like 3am in his corner of the world, I felt a place unfurl inside my chest.

What came next was a surprising and distinct flash of pain. It was a piercing: as if a small sewing needle pulled the thread of him through me—once, twice. I inhaled sharply, and then it was over.

Pulling my hands up from my wet, joyous thighs, I began to tap my fingers to my breastbone. Morse code, morse code. I have a lover in Ireland; I have a lover in Ireland; I have a lover in Ireland I tapped…for the first time strangely panicked; for the first time, believing it to be true.


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