of course I feel like a child
inviting him to step
closer: this white
man full of breasts:
this bulge peeking
pockets of mouth.
i throat him
and he undresses
my scars. the doorway tall.
hinged with veins of metal
and the jangle of things
buttoning. but i stare
at bottles standing
in our shoes.
Anniston, Alabama, 1972
You’ve done it again—looked at that light-skinned woman’s legs like bottles
full of whiskey. Put your hooked finger to her hair.
Percy, my hands are growing
wild. Yesterday, I slid a knife into grapefruit. Split it
into halves & found you sleep on the porch, your mouth
twitching, chin dark with juice. I unzipped
your pants, placed my hand inside. And you rose like a papaya
wet with spit inside my palm—
my left hand watching. Heavy with the glint
of a knife.
"tight" first appeared on The Best American Poetry Blog
"Anniston, Alabama, 1972" first appeared in PANK