The kind you’re born with, the kind you choose, the kind that teach Catholic school
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It is not enough to step through the night
enclosed in our separate bodies;
your arm floating across my back,
your fingers lost in my hair.
The darkness parts before us
and slams shut as we pass
with absolute finality.
I cannot see the orbit of your eyes,
the dark side of your face,
the wisp of cloud behind your ear.
You press me to your side, close as a wing
and I seep through my skin
to lodge between your flesh and the air,
surrounding you like water
around a drowning child.
I grasp your hand, reminding myself
I am real. As real as the night. As real as you.
And we are both alone, and we are both alive
stranded like sand under this moonless starless sky.
Under an icy moon
chase each other
up and down the hall
like small infinite horses
while everyone sleeps
behind shut doors
except for one woman
whose head is bowed
whose breast is lifted
by her own cupped hand
to meet her own small mouth.
Move over boy
these hips are coming through!
These hips’ll knock you off the street
if you don’t make room for them to move!
These hips sway
these hips sashay
these ain’t no Brooke Shields teenage
boy size 3 ½ slim hypocritical hips —
these hips are woman hips!
These hips are wide
these hips hypnotize
these hips fill a skirt
the way the wind fills a sail.
These hips have chutzpah —
they think they can change the whole world!
When I take these hips out for a walk on the street
and the sun is shining
and my bones are gleaming
I place my hand on these two hips
and know they speak the truth.