I went looking for the body. The apple, tree, the river. Gliding voice, curve of arm, pearly blue uterus. Muscled calf, the neptune green eye, blood with the same taste as mine. Why do I write my report this way? An adopted child needs to find a face. What does a real mother's body look like? River, chalkline, bloody cave? I am replica of nothing. birthmother, conjurer, boneshaker, witch, let me smell your skin just once, I'll give you your bloody daughter.
Sticking It to the Man
Lateeka's working, my favorite teller—
she's got wild nail art & fire red/
In line: young guy in hi-tops w/ipod,
black blazer girl on her lunch hour.
Lateeka & I always talk hair & makeup,
she's in school for accounting.
A guy with 20-inch arms in a Hines Ward jersey/
cut off at the sleeves,
a white-haired woman with
a cane & her daughter
Restaurant guy walks up to the window
with a bagful of receipts—
the blonde teller working the line
leaves her post & exits side-door,
so it's Lateeka & people
roll their eyes & grumble:
Oh great, now there's only one teller up there.
Steeler guy shakes his head:
Jesus Christ, do you believe this?
Daughter to mother:
Why don't you sit down?
Blazer girl turns:
I'm late for an appointment.
Steeler guy waves his massive arms wide
like he's going out for a pass:
Hey, I got an idea—
why don't we shut this shit down & open up a bank?
We turn to see his arms jabbing the air
like he's trying to grab it down—
his neck red with rage.
He barrels out the door & we bust into
laughing, the air full with mutiny:
1 new spot open, we inch forward like
fat cattle, clutching our checks
a little less tightly.
We have won for the day,
we are sticking it to the man.