When her
Man gets it Right
A black woman is all butter
Her skin
is soft and sweet
Taffy
laces her tongue
Her salty
words turn into pure sugar cane
When her
man gets it right
She
belts out a heart song like an opera singer
Her
voice low one moment
Higher
than choir boys the next
As she
touches heaven as she kiss angel’s wings
When her
man gets it right
A black
woman will forget
She is
supposed to be made of steel
She
cradles her body low like a child
She
offers all she has to give, herself
When her
man gets it right
She
thinks of him as lord his kingdom her heart
To her
around his head circles halos and stars
Although,
he may be made of clay
By what
she sees he can do no wrong
When her
man gets it right
She will
follow him into battle with the world
She
knows she will be crucify
By the
world for following him
As long
as she’s with him that doesn’t matter
When her
man gets it right
He can
come home to her tarred and feathered
Still
she embraces him wiping his face with her hair
She
cleans his feet with her tears…
When her
man gets it right.
Hipbones
in Motion
Our
bodies are musical instruments
Our
bodies enticed your body to sing along
Our
bodies sweat creates its own heat
We keep
time with the drumming of our feet
We churn
our hips like snakes
Our hips
gyrate in motions slow
Our hips
can keep the beat to any tempo
If you
dare say our hips are too sexual
This
praising we share of our hips is our ritual
Our
religion and heaven is felt in our dance
Our
bodies has found again the rhythm
Reminding
us we too are daughters of mother Africa
Our hipbones
in motion is an act of love
The
magic hidden deep in our blood
Black
Mary
She is
ripe with child but divine aid has yet to come.
Whom
will she turn to without a Joseph to put it on?
Born to
her a son to be glorified in squalor in snow
Teeny
Maria who God has chosen let no man shun.
By her
fifth month her dad threw her out
While
her mom stood silent
Starring
out the window then said a Psalm.
She is
ripe with child but divine aid has yet to come.
A good
girl to be canonized without a manger
By God
glorified into the hostile night she must run.
Another pregnant
throwaway without a place set aside.
Whom
will she turn to without a Joseph to put it on?
Subway
graffiti artist will find her image irresistible
Her dark
eyes window to the soul
Beautification
this time without eyes of blue
Born to
her a son to be glorified in squalor swaddle in snow
A new
queen of heaven coming out of the ghetto
Somewhere
holy choirs are waiting to sing this new song
How the
Lord messiah born behind a Dunkin’ Donuts again has come.
Teeny
Maria whom God has chosen let no man shun.
Marchell Dyon poetry has been published in
many magazines including Eye to the Telescope, Mused Bella Online, Dead Snakes
and Medusa’s Kitchen. She is from Chicago IL.
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