< Issue 2 >
Courting or When the Church Lady Makes the Author a Man
by Danez Smith
Your body is nothing short of Venus
fly-trap and I am buzzing,
Between your “how yous”
and “Amens,” I see your eyes;
my clothes slowly julienned,
your eyelashes machetes
blinking me naked
until I am nothing but dress socks
and church shoes and skin,
neither one of us prays
for the right thing.
you are blessed with curves
mercy to your age,
hips and waistline still
20-something, thighs plead.
Uncle say Any woman that will look back at you
is alright by me and welcome to my bedroom
so what am I supposed to do with this body
that has made of myth of mine?
I am shaking the boy off, trying
on a man’s shoulders,
a clumsy Adam’s apple sampling bass,
hair finally past peach fuzz,
in first stages of ripe
and your teeth crave new fruit.
*
I have the strangest dreams
where we are in church
and I am slicing away at your dress,
my eyes still doubting
what I am supposed to be imagining,
a smile to make this tease seem quaint.
then we are in my room
and you place my quaking hand on your thighs,
then I am between them
and I somehow know
how to move
there. At some point
names and whatever fat we can bite
gets muddled in mouths,
we melt, the difference between flesh, sweat,
pulled hair, moan, nail, sheets and all
that fire turns steam,
I wake up wet and sweet,
the blood retreats,
my whole skeleton humming,
and the only word I have for the wonderful dance in my breath
is sin, does God know it feels this good?
On Sundays, the dream is more intense.
my body knows you
will place a hand on my chest
when you say hello,
my mother will warn me
to stay away, but what was I supposed to do?
What boy doesn’t like being stroked?
What bee doesn’t collapse at the scent of honey?
Even the savior dreamed of soft Mary
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