In the City, In February

If I were to take your mittened hand
and squeeze it like a just-ripe fruit,

I wonder if it would burst—

If the sticky juice of you would
seep through my fingers
so that I could taste
what you are all about.

I wonder if you have seeds—
the watermelon kind— black,
soft-hard eyes buried in the
cheeky pink layers of your scarves,
your hat.

I wonder if you are warm
under my tongue, between
my teeth, sliding on my gums—
the peachy melon taste of papayas.


I wonder if,
inside your January pod,
your skin is tinted amber by the sun.

under your down,
your belly is damp, sweet honey.

Most,
I wonder if you might
(from inside out)
bring me the Spring.

These American Hips

I balance on these American hips,
sure-footed step of a
white Sister
(so they tell me).

Never carried the weight of my big
body like some Anglo Woman whose
smile promises shame,
beads of sweat-drop-
apologies on her tight
lip.

Weight of my body carried me
up stairs, all over
the World and here I am

Been in beds and twisted sheet,
thighs to burn with hot wet sweetness of a man, but
they are made
to move in a slinging motion—
side-to-side, the wide arc of a pendulum,
and these American hips,
they take me places.

To Rock and Roll

Unveil the Victrola,
honey,

and in the name of narrow-minded
nothingness
(and nudity)

we’ll dance-
with our ankles angled upwards
and our skirts around
our necks-

and in the next room
racing rocking chairs
and reeling in
newsprint,
Mom and Pop will never
know better.

Foxtrot hopping
our hot right hips
(to The Twist)
Two-step waltzing
to Charleston
and back-

we might
forget to set the table
and stay out all
night.

But just past dawn,
we can Feather Step home,
and I’ll hold your hand ‘til

Front Porch Heaven.