Girl or Just Violence from Here: Poem Fourteen
Whirl ginger hair, and start slowly—tapping to three, driving hands with spread fingers up through sun fired mud, cracked and fluid. Sparkle and smile. Wink blue eyes. Make it look like Swan Lake to Thriller beats in red metal mush gliding into still brown clay. Torqued and twirled, ooze panic, fire over an arched back with cream skin, grace en pointe. Make the dance a prayer, screams gyrated with broken green glass. And remember to end it in angry black and yellow skin.