after the all been done and i

move around in.they don’t fit into littlepetty places. these hipsare free hips.they don’t like to be held back.these hips have never been enslaved,they go where they want to gothey do what they want to do.these hips are mighty hips.these hips are magic hips.i have known themto put a spell on a man andspin him like…

and the lights is back onand my uncle brud has hitfor one dollar straightand they is good timesgood timesgood timesmy mama has made breadand grampaw has comeand everybody is drunkand dancing in the kitchenand singing in the kitchenof these is good timesgood timesgood timesoh children think about thegood times

she is standing bythe furnace.the coalsglisten like rubies.her hand is crying.her hand is clutchinga sheaf of papers.poems.she gives them up.they burnjewels into jewels.her eyes are animals.each hank of her hairis a serpent’s obedientwife.she will never recover.remember. there is nothingyou will not bearfor this woman’s sake.

sothe bodyof one black manis rag and stoneis mudand bloodthe body of oneblack mancontains no lifeworth lovingso the bodyof one black manis nobodymamamamamamacitais there no valuein this skinmamamamaif we are nothingwhyshould we sparethe neighborhoodmamamamawho will be next andwhy should we savethe pictures

drops out of its box squallinginto the light. they are both squalling,animal and cage. her bars lie wet, openand empty and she has made herself againout of flesh out of dictionaries,she is always emptying and it is allthe same wound the same blood the same breaking.

and dead these 15 yearswho carried a bookon every stroll.when daddy was dyingshe left the streetsand moved back hometo tend him.her pimp came tooher Diamond Dickand they would take turnsreadinga bible aloud through the house.when you poem thisand you will she would sayremember the Book of Job.happy birthday and hopeto you Josephineone of the eastsmost…