Black Music

Ears black like leather, he could hear my every move. As quiet and as humble as he was, he rode the bus to get use to himself. 

     Said he had never seen a lady quite like myself, said he had never heard a tune so smooth. He shuffled his fingers into my hips, he played me like I was his guitar. 

        He wasn't as hard core as rock, more mellow like acoustic. He said I talk good English, I speak good. He had eyes as deep and dark as my soul, no yet rotten. 

     He would holler: "Ay, yo brown eyes, would you be my blues?" Flattered, I let him find all the right places for his fingers in my hips, I was his piano. No other woman could confess and make home out of the hallows in his chest. 

      Though I could never fill the hole of the lost of his son, a touch of my body insulated his soul so he wouldn't be as drafty, he blamed me for why he didn't get drafted into the NFL, he said: "You be too music for me. If I left, there would be no reason for me to scream your name everyday, it's like I almost stopped singing." 

         Your sway is a melody, your vocal cords wrap around bodies, brown bodies like bags. Will you let these rings wrap our fingers? Be my broadway. He sang to me like I was his microphone, the theater and the only one who'd listen when Def Jam was too deaf to listen to his mix tape. 

          He had ears black as leather, lips, black as an oil slick and I had hips and body he made music with I was his instrument. 

       I was the grammatically correct talk between his stutters. I was the incorrect one to mess with cause... Momma ain't raise me to be no fool. She said my daddy was black like sam bow, he be half white. 

        But black as the residue from week old crack infested teeth, black like you, him and me... Even though according to Granny I be yella. 

        According to them if I'm darker than a bag, I'm not eligible for their society. I'm black like his ears. My daughters will be black like his ears, their daddy will be black like his ears. Their daddy found the ridges of my hips past my belly, I was his piano. 

       I was his wife, we could never afford a car so we rode the bus. I was his instrument. We could never afford a car so we rode the bus. He strung my heart strings. I was his guitar. We could never afford a car so we rode the bus... 

     He said it was how he would get use to himself, he being black as an oil slick, me being light as pencils, I wrote his music.