“I transform a little more each time I read the words in this Anthology. I come a little more undone through each curve, crevice, brushstroke, and intentional line I see, deeply, through the included artworks.

It is my Sensualist who becomes as I transform, though. It is my Sensualist who embodies as I come undone.

So, who are you as The Sensualist, before you peruse this Issue, throughout your perusal, and after you’ve let the art make you a new being?”

“Being a sensualist meant realizing that my body grew flowers because being sensual required so much toiling of the soil, watering with arousal of thought and actions, and deep prayer for the orgasmic joy of watching your flowers bloom.”

“On last year’s anniversary, as he’d held me, I’d whispered all the things that set my skin on fire when I thought of him. How that part of me that I had buried and forgotten about was awakened, and she wouldn’t rest. How I wanted us to go deeper, into the corners of our minds that didn’t need to make sense.”

“Never, I realized, would I stand as firm as the thick wooden cello. A man who cradles an instrument is not made to cradle a woman. I swore I would never allow myself to be taken by an artist again.”

“I summon forth She who lies in the shadow—

sharp salvation, sweet salivation

my sultry, my silly, my sensual

in Her every skin, she summons me

crawling on all fours…”

“There is surrender in the stillness. In bowing my head low enough to hear the pulse of the earth beneath me. In saying, I do not need to carry it all. Not today.“

“this is your Sensual speaking,

calling you Home.

come as you are. rise from the Earth.”

“I put a piece of grapefruit in my mouth, and its juices release themselves into me. I close my eyes, tilt my head back and let out a tiny breathy moan. It’s been two days without taste, but not even a cold can stop the sensation, scent, and flavor of a ripe grapefruit. I keep my eyes closed as I chew, whispering a mantra of gratitude, reverence, and defiance. I deny myself nothing.”

“kiss me good night,

drift over crevices

rest

in between places unknown”