I grew up with pickles. I slept in
the attic (cigarettes, sheets laced with
smoke). The heat of my father’s
brother’s old room. Larry Blackmon
painted for effect & Chaka Khan’s lips
more like a kiss if a kiss could walk
when it came to life. If a kiss
could have hips & legs & ass—
well, I wanted that.
& if the colors could sweat & strip
me down to my slip, well,
I wanted that, too. Nobody knew
what I was thinking up there.
Though, maybe, they wanted that. That.
Copyright © 2020 Yona Harvey
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.