OVUM GOSPEL, by Prairie M. Faul

Prairie M. Faul is a Cajun trans-woman currently living in Portland, Oregon. She is the author of the upcoming self-published chapbook Root-Heart. Her work has been featured in Inferior Planets and On the Veranda literary journal.

Ovum Gospel

This is not the start
It is not clear that there was a start
Because there is no ending
and those two equidistant poles are
two eggs presented as one
You are two eggs presented as one
most are not two eggs presented as one
so they sound out
foretelling the gospel of two eggs as one
What is the sound of conception?
I know that you can’t hear it through layers
Layers muffle the sound
Layers don’t exist
as single sheets
Words don’t make sounds either for you
You don’t make egg-sounds or word-sounds or sounds-of-conception
You make not-sounds with dead-words
Names from dead-fields and dead-girls
Words are of the world
Your not-sounds are like world-sounds
but everyone knows they are not really world-sounds
Because the world is flat for you
pole to pole
You can retrace the surface
Its how you know there is no end
only repetition
you, endless story
assemblage of not-sound
foretold birth-death
you are repetition
and the not-sounds you make
reverberate across the surface of two eggs as one
they hear it
call it holy word
Hosana on high


You were baptized twice, maybe three times, all while you were old enough to remember. Even your birth could be called baptismal, I mean your mom did fuck the pastor’s son after all, isn’t that kinda holy? But the first one was barely worth the memory, something about a green shirt and a black tie, oh and cake there was buttercream cake. Its weird isn’t it? That someone would have cake to celebrate your momentary loss of sin. And what about the people that make that stuff? How many cakes with frosted crosses do you think the ladies at the grocery store make? Do they rub their sticky hands together and cheer you on from the distance, so glad they could contribute in some way to another religious rite of passage. So the first one, the one with all the dressing and pomp, that was Catholic right? Good ol’ Cajun catholics doing lip service and making sure their kids get washed in the holy water only to slide back into mortal lives the rest of the days or weeks or years. It was your first taste of magick, like a divine high or something. I mean that had to be the case because you kept that little bottle of holy water they give you like a trophy or more like an emergency stash and you swigged from it just like your daddy. Chase down the sin with a quick shot, chase down the pain with an easy pull, and a quick sign of the cross for good measure. Ritual. Yeah there was something big to it. The second one was whatever, your grandpa the pastor gave you a quick drown in front of a congregation and you had fried chicken for dinner. Nothing really transcendent there. Chaste almost, like the rest of their lives. If catholics are big on sunday only, baptists are small always; shrunken desire, an understanding of their minute existence in the great expanse of HIS DIVINE CREATION, and they don’t dance or at least yours didn’t. You always liked to dance as a kid but you didn’t tell them that, didn’t tell them you stole your uncle’s jacket from their house because you just wanted to wrap yourself up in something tangible that was apart of their world, didn’t tell them you were a big gay tranny far away from the south, didn’t go to their funeral. You made yourself small in your own way, I guess there was something to it after all. But the last baptism. You know that last baptism like you know the order of gospels, the taste of holy water, the prayers you would’ve heard at your grandmothers’ grave. Something out of corinthians probably, that or something that talks about providence, sheep returning to the flock, yada yada. It was plain mustard pants and a moss green sweater you blessed a space on your thigh and pushed holy spirit, holy liquid, right into your veins. Caught the ghost. It was the space where in a single moment all the pieces of the past blurred together and real presence, the soundness of everything around you, was there. Like distinctly there, because you were there for the first time and it was like you got it. You got what everyone tried to give you in the past, meaning from ritual or words or water or stale crackers, it was finally there. From the Beginning to Now, alpha and omega, transgression and transition, you bathed. Washed. Baptized. And you’ll keep doing it till they put you in the ground I guess. No prayers there just a couple of girls like you, standing over and nodding knowingly. Yeah. Amen.

The Bowerbird

Did You know that no tree lives alone
That roots traverse bodies
And fields
And Your hair
All to meet at the rhizome
They gnarl there
So softly
Do You believe in the cycle of trees
Do You believe in trees circling
i believe that i am growth
And You are climbing my limbs
To find out how i sound at the canopy
And a part of me is growing faster than You can find footholds
So You tell me “i will wait here,
i will build a nest and fill it with indigo”
But i will already be existing in two directions
Or all directions
Do You believe in roots in all directions
i think You believe in blues
Even though You are green
And that is beautiful possibility
i am green too
i am green shifting to blue to indigo
To blushing reds
Growing shelter around roots that are not Your own
That are not mine
Though they are stained indigo too
They have curls and claws and quiet lips
And We will collide around You
And Your nest
And Your ink
And i will ask You
Do You believe in giving trees
In blue bled bark
In naked Eggs
In fields of brackish water
In interlocked roots
Do You believe in Me

La Prairie Des Femmes (La petit Mort)

She took me to the field where names are born and fucked me in the flowers(?). They felt like flowers(?), bristling against ankles, mewling softly of new growth. She rubbed herself against my leg, stacked limb on limb on limb while the roots grew as bulwarks. Like parapets of protection the roots grew around us, something in our sweat maybe, something in her release edging them on. It felt warm and viscous, the sap-like nectar she left clinging to my thigh. Flowers(?) craned towards the spectacle, bending stalks like pantomine of nodding approval. Were they always there? Her mouth on my neck on my navel on my mind, how many mouths did she have? Petal to lip, rose to breast, dick to dick. There the ground tremored, where our hips collided; tectonic. Flowers(?) transitioning at heightened speed bloom to bare to bud to beginning bulb like eternal return. I dreamed of this field once, browning prairie grass and mold-covered stone women. There was one where we lay now, she stole your face in stone, your sister. She left something in my mouth from the first touch of tongue. Copper and grainy, I swallowed it down. Have you ever tasted yourself? Memories and senses and flesh and past-present-future-the-now-of-her-against-me-has-it-been-like-this-forever(?)-I-don’t-know-if-I-still-exist-or-if-I-do-for-the-first-time all contained in a single drop. Taste fades, moments fade, fields grow barren, I remain. I came back to the field in dream or in life(?), maybe I never went back really. Tapping roots sounding like her sighs I walked the circle. I sat in the flowers(?), they had grown into the center. A mosaic of colors I laid myself amongst them, into their/our bed, and dreamt for the rest of my days.

After thought/light

Did you think


could be


your light



out shine

                                          the Moon

              bathe her face


                                                in Her


                  will be

light years



and still

                                      She will glow.