WOMEN’S STUDIES

 

There’s something to be said for squatting

something mystical and practical

in the female bondingness,

in the sheer strength

and balance of the hover.

 

Little sister hasn’t learned to squat

poor baby still manages to dribble

on sandaled toes

piddles on the panties

and blue jeans gathered at her quavering feet

            and sometimes she falls

 

Learning

the proper proportion

of paper to seat,

approximating without skimping

or clogging

so as to preserve the sanctity,

the pristine beauty

of a

     southwest 

     amtrak    

     greyhound

     or waffle house

john.

 

I remember crouching with mama,

around the uncovered drain of a belle isle men’s room,

seven years old and nowhere else to go

 

that drain was the cleanest spot in the whole damn place

            following her lead,

            I unbuttoned,

got low

            and pissed,

            like a lady,

 

 

down the throat of open sewage

as mama held me steady

and daddy stood sentry outside the rusted doors.

 

 

THE 6

 

A little girl got on the bus tonight

and

without hesitating

took the first open seat

 

          next to a man

 

something natural

          unfathomable

 

sitting down

9 or 10 years old, beaming

in hot pink tank top, green flip flops,

colorful skirt

    

blowing bubble yum

 

          next to a man

                     a grown man

 

                                 a stranger

                                                         not family

                                                                                    and sometimes even then

                                                        

mama/daddy/auntie/teacher

taught me early that manhood

spelled danger

to my little girl parts—

 

                                un/predictable

                                ferocious

                                insatiable

                                for black girl skin

 

but there she sits:  

 

pretty little mama

          unaware

brown knees parted

ankles uncrossed

 

consumed with

green nail polish,

cheetos,

and headbands                                                     

 

legs dancing

     vulnerable, free

to the jaunt and shudder

of the sixth street bus.

 

APHASIA

 

Funny that there is a word

            a single word

for there-are-no-words

or there-are-none-that-I-know:

 

One word

for the inability to string phonemes

morphemes

syllables

meaningfully

 

forthejumbledexperienceofmeaningbeyond

the clamoring clutch of l/anguish*

 

defiant sobs

desperate silences

moans, grumbles

and intercessory groanings only

could even

come close to articulating

approximating

the chaos

that smolders

just

on the tip of the tongue

 

 

 

 

*l/anguish—from M. Nourbese Philip’s “Discourse on the Logic of Language”