For Aretha Franklin
Aretha. Deep butter dipped, scorched pot liquor,
swift lick off the sugar cane. Vaselined knees
clack gospel, hinder the waddling South. ’Retha.
Greased, she glows in limelit circle, defending
her presence with a sanctified moan, ass rumbling
toward curfew’s backstreets where jukes still gulp silver.
Goddess of Hoppin’ John and bumped buttermilk,
girl know Jesus by His first name. She the one
sang His drooping down from ragged wooden T,
dressed Him in blood-red shine, conked that holy head,
rustled up excuses for bus fare and took
the Deity downtown. They found a neon
backslap, coaxed the DJ and slid electric
till the lights slammed on. Don’t know where you goin’,
who you going with, but you sho can’t stay here.
Aretha taught the Good Son slow, dirty
words for His daddy’s handiwork, laughed as he
first sniffed whiskey’s surface, hissed him away when
he sought to touch His hand to the blue in her.
She was young then, spindly and thin ribs paining,
her heartbox thrumming in a suspicious key.
So Jesus blessed her, opened her throat and taught
her to wail that way she do, Lawd she do wail
that way don’t she do that wail the way she do
wail that way, don’t she? That girl can wail that way.
Now when Aretha’s fleeing screech jump from juke
and reach been-done-wrong bone, all the Lord can do
is stand at a wary distance and applaud.
Oh yeah, and maybe shield His heart a little.
So you question her several shoulders,
the soft stairs of flesh leading to her chins,
the steel bones of an impossible dress
gnawing raw into bubbling obliques?
Ain’t your mama never schooled you in how
black women collect the world, build other
bodies onto our own? No earthly man
knows the solution to our hips, asses
urgent as sirens, our titties bursting
with traveled roads. Ask Aretha just what
Jesus whispered to her that night about
the gospel hidden in lard and sugar.
She’ll tell you why black girls grow fat
away from the world, and toward each other.