Back in the Day
BY JAMAICA BALDWIN
We weren’t a murder or flock,
but a defense of girls
bracing for impact.
She think she all that don’t she with her high-yella ass!
Iron gossip gutted into musculature.
The older girls carried knives
and drew their eyebrows
into thin dark arcs of war.
The telephone booth at Taco Bell
we frequented. The useless torn wings
we licked and hung
our heads when Five-O rolled by
prowling for truants:
older boys carried
from group home
to juvey to our arms.
Our worries eclipsed by a replay of kisses.
The pollination of lips. The waiting:
He said he’d call at 2. Give him 10 minutes. 10 minutes more.
In the observatory of mistakes, we chipped our teeth
on stars trying to consume the night,
scissored our bodies into rations we lured the boys with—
the ones we called ours.
Walking to 7-11, his cheekbones glinting in cigarette light.
Fallen. Got my nose wide open. My lonesome
soothed if only for the moment.
