I’m not like girls in pretty shoes.
Sky high yellows, oranges, pinks
written down quick ‘cause somebody smiled
and wanted so bad to remember.
Feels right, lifting youth and verve,
‘cause light makes right and pretty is light
calling from the altar in his pocket every time
he wants to be heard.
Those unenlightened somebodies (men?) believe they’ve taken my lagging pulse,
“poor, poor girl,” but unh uh. They measured mine
against theirs boomping fast as high heels crossed the floor
under ‘easy’ dresses with metal supports.
(Pause while they fall to their knees, hands pressed together.
Blessed Structure. Good bones. Silicone. Pray.)
God speaks to them in a vocal-fried creaky voice
dotted with question marks. Always.
I don’t talk like those girls, and won’t be taught.
I’m messy but aware when riled or coaxed by the real dark.
I shimmy around corners, warm like nectar, razor showing.
Yes, warm. I do cool when I decide. One can always ask.
Sweethearts in sherbet shoes
only slow me down when they get attention and I don’t.
Then I loose and ease into stride, barefoot and faster. Wiser.
I say, “Go ahead, don’t look. You’ll miss me.”
I say what I want in my corner because real beauties will,
prickling nerves or smearing an edge just found
with the real properties of light.
I do because I can, I will and I won’t are my favorite words.