Naudia Williams
She held my hand when the storms came
She broke Black Boys by the jaw
Kissed them by the bullets
Her foundation can’t cover her pores
Her tears salt lakes
she don’ chewed attitude into a pit
She washes her face in crimson
She cooked up concoctions
Mild enough to live thru 18 or 21
But sometimes her babies are immune
She use tombstones as nail filers
She toot that powdered snow out her nose
Her heart look like a waste land
Cuz ain’t no rhythm a bucket boy could beat to revive her
Her body a series of broken sidewalks
her hips a hashed division of lines and intersections