[from Thylias Moss's At Redbones, 1990]
He had a blonde woman on his chest and he
was in prison. Just her head and it
was tilted so that she could look up at
his chin, the cliff just jumped off.
She's the glossy cover superimposed on
the table, the vinyl Chrysler seat,
wherever she lies.
A convict improvising isn't new. A black man
made a convict by the blonde woman on his chest
isn't new. Decapitations aren't new. Nothing
this man did is new. He didn't mean to be
a copy cat.
He wore her like a designer label. With her on
you could call him revealed but not naked.
She masked his heart. She kept it from hungry
others, even the starving self.
It was like she was being born right from
his rib cage. It was like rereading Genesis.
He was just a dark transitory cocoon.
It was like he just wanted to boast
about what he could produce
At Redbones (CSU poetry series)