From Head To Toe

Her toes were subtle, separate and royal
like the jeweled points in a King's crown that sat on the throne of her heels
and what a rough throne it was
Battered from long walks in the park at night
and callused from trying to dance away 400 years of slavery
Jumping the broom in the cotton field, southern girl
Double dutch on the front lawn in a world moving just a little bit too fast
Gunshot arches in her feet, can you feel me?

Her ankles were two moons glowing in the dusk
Upon which legs that seemed to go just as far up
Rested halfway were knees known to move and to shake once all the lights went away
When the music in the basement gets so loud your blood starts to hum
Your lower back folds into the wall and it starts yellin at ya
"Push back harder, baby"
Thighs made of hymns
I'll leaver her inner thighs and insides for later in the piece

Her hips? Glorified hula hoops
Gym class rockin, cat walk poppin
Rush hour traffic, two red lights stoppin
Her stomach was an African plateau
Wishing well belly button
by which children from all the surrounding villages walked miles to claim their life from

There was life in her chest, every curve a mountainside slope
Imagine molding Everest
Kilimanjaro in these palms
Read them. Now, tell me where my future lies.
Are you kissing me in it?
Is there a bridge made out of cobblestone? of gold? of kisses? of love?
Is there a bridge connecting me from wherever i'm going to be to your neck?
Can I Savion over it?
Left, right to the rhythm of it calling:
"Come hither, make a garden out of me!
Daffodils and daisies and glory and all"

Upwards more, her chin moved like good sex when she spoke
Right under her lips, damn near the safest cavern i've ever known
A hollowed out tree trunk at the end of the road
She could beat back Boo Radley with the tricks she could do with them things
Where I hide all my tongue scratched love notes
and her tongue was the Mississippi river

Her cheeks? a warm winter classroom two weeks before Christmas break
Teacher with a paperback copy of The Autobiography of Malcolm X in his palms
22 light houses and 3 passions for changing things
Upwards more, eyes were two lovers who'd seen some shit
making love under red satin sheets for hours
Don't stop, I can't move but don't stop

Upwards more, ears of the Oracle. Of the Bible. Of Egypt.
And hair that wreaked of Southern trimming
of a picket white fence surrounding moat like grass
And a house with a big wraparound front porch
Never ending picnics in Northern Virginia

Your head was great, baby, but your mind was the night before a revolution
You could hear everything
You could see the future
You smelled like Sunday morning
You tasted like Sunday morning

Your breath was endless
Your touch was that of a deep, maroon, Native American tradition
Where the land wraps you in it's arms like bed after a long, long night
Downwards more, where the insides of her legs came together
Nothing but sweet, raw flesh and nicotine summertime
She walked with her legs and her walk was mean
Just as a woman's should be
But her toes? Her toes could dig into the sand at 5am on the beach
Face toward the waves and prepared to watch the sun rise