My Gender Is a Red Stiletto or Grocery Store Feet
Marita, don’t tell me to pick one.
I am either barefoot or wearing six-inch Pleasers—
my gender is dirty-soled and naked or
gleaming in patent leather and pointed height; lace me up
to cut me down I
don’t know what shapes of me I’d like to scissor off and which ones
to hold on to. You get grocery store feet
from being so poor
you have to walk around the Piggly Wiggly shoeless. I tell you that
my mama always said don’t come in my house
with those grocery store feet
after running around in the woods barefoot, how
I had to wash them off with the garden hose in the back.
Dirt feels like home
if ever there was one.
But you, Marita, make me feel grimy when you look at me
with that clean face of judgment
when I talk about my job. Your daddy
pays all your bills. Mine’s
all sugar and whips. Now look here—
you best quit looking at me like that,
especially after I made you moan for ten hours straight.
Oughta take that garden hose and wash your stink off my chin,
clean your attitude off while I’m at it.
Best remind yourself, my beautiful begonia,
there ain’t nothing clean
about wealth.
