[22. Kiss]
She got these groove fingers
and this burlap dress dat scratches up against me
when she move
like daddy's stubble face when he blow raspberries
into my stomach.
She got this Winco grocery bag smile;
empty it and fly it in the wind and
it'll turn into a the head of a white man's baby:
wrinkly and old-faced
as big as the sky when you turn out all the citylights an' see
that God is up there sowing seeds, man.
Sowing apple-seed stars all over her milkweed silk,
and her candy-jar hands scoop dat loose sky-soil over
the seedlings and pat it down.
Lemme tell you this, she just sit there for hours
she'll sit there for hours in her backyard
lit by nigger sweat and horse-whip cracks
lit by fingers dat brush up against the fever heads of chil'ens
and the creaking of bones, front-porch deck and the screen-door creaking
Buddy.
Feel my hands.
They are plow-share hands.
They are greasy as momma's cooking.
They are cold, cold, cold.
And Sugar, these green bean limbs won't last me much longer
and my chest is getting all ratty, like movie theatre seats.
If she hold me, Lor', I know I can keep on moving
but her,
she just too jealous and she keeps her mo-town kisses
like little southern black girls tryin' to keep their virginity.
Ha!
I never heard a more laughable sit-u-ation!
