Calves go chaos under pounding,
clothesline raises welt and bloodies
shin and ankle, hip and forearm
while we throw down nasty verses
and the boys step from the shadows.
In our stanzas, swerving beckons,
all our skin is steam and shining,
and we’re women—not these babies
spouting bowlegs, stomping rhythm,
not these braids of quick unravel.
Hear our keyless, tangled trochees—
Butch and Sally in the alley.
Squeeze them titties like you mean it.
Bet you ain’t gon’ reach my panties!
Jump and whirl, we tempt our future
in a language born of beatdown,
verbs we urge from high-top sneakers.
Whipping hips and licking lips and
punishing the ground with craving,
got no notion what we’re asking.
Mamas screeching from the windows,
Chile, you better stop that jumping,
showin’ the neighborhood your business!
Bring your tail inside for dinner!
And the boys slide from the shadows.