__________by Turner
There isn’t love in this house
Or a magic bird flying to central park
To wild you
There aren’t flags to wrap around your
Open fist or shoes of Italian leather
Because I use to be special.
To kiss me was an unveiled secret and mischief
Around your dinner table and I loved the query of bed
Arrangements in your mother’s palace. I miss the comfort of
Quietly touching your untouchables in the backseat of
That powder blue mustang
I liked when strangers seen me arranging the golden cross in
Your cleavage and when your brothers asked about your friend.
There isn’t enough power in this poem
Or Nikki’s strange revolution to lure
You on the phone for mindless conversation.
Don’t ask, don’t tell at a time when I couldn’t scream
When I wanted to tell my neighbor that slip should be slipped
Right off unto me and then my carpet
When I wanted to write a bitch poem and say pussy and feel
Pussy in economics and file bankruptcy to a Somalia queen who would
Pay me to suck her breast and feed her cousin
Tell my sister that I just adored Pam Grier at 16, now she’s smile and tells
Me “She really was beautiful then”
