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Lordy, I’m getting up in years but mama
ain’t too old to shift her gears” — Ida Cox.
It’s sort of a fetish with me. Your ass
in fishnets; I’ve always had a thing for
older women in fishnets, their hourglass
lips, ball-breaking boots. Out on the dreamfloor
of our bedroom someone stands up. Someone
begins calling me home. Home is hardcore,
ancient and changing. I love your shaven
lips and your whiskey hip voice. I love your
smile while you’re gagging me down, while bending
down in that skirt. You’re somebody’s mother.
Tonguing your two cheeks apart, those two thigh
pillows. That letter from mama, calling:
come home child, before I die, the letter
from her, I die, I – come before I die.
memories of my ghost sista 