I Heard a Black Man Say
she’s essence
her mardi gras is my celebration
I dip in her chocolate
under the magnolia tree, we chill
I kiss her arms and
wait for girl giggles
her mouth poundcake
her lips jolly rancher
she’s bible
she’s fried chicken
biscuits, gravy
her voice is my mixtape
I drink her juice
she is dance
to John Coltrane
in a sentimental mood
dancing in the morning
the color yellow
sun on a good day
she is jumping double dutch, no hands
her is gold hoop earrings
a Salt-N-Peppa asymmetrical she is 90’s rhythm
Justice and Lucky in the mail truck
her is my coffee shop
she helps me find my keys
cornrows, snap peas, Brooklyn, theater
golden arches, rib, pink matter
beads, a sunflower field, blueberry muffin
she tastes bubblegum
merry go round me milk me have mercy, on me.
The Girls in the South Wear Booty Shorts
so short they make all the boys say
what you doing girl with all that
it pokes from the back-causing a
distraction at the workplace, in the
church, and on the way to run
Saturday errands that booty be like
gumbo, a wonder bread kind of thick
decorated in dimples and a roadmap
if you smack it, it’ll talk to you
that big ole booty follows
the country girls around and around
causing frenzies
mama be like, she ain’t here
come back later
a country girl booty makes ‘em
stay in the street looking for that bouncy
let me pounce on it thang
juicy fruit booty working overtime
walking Naomi in those cut off shorts
he say he will sin – gin if only a chance
to see it wiggle jiggle do aerobics
how it looks, that way, in the air, stretched
pulled every night before bed the country
girls say their prayers
they pray for cooler summers
their brothers to come home
and a love, to come down
Jazz is a Black Man in the Library
His beard turning the pages scratching vinyl echoing jazz
we wake up to get our cake up afro sheen in lemon green
as we rim shot with our bass guitars in our laps we pop
art in our pop style he teaches me how to pop that thang
we watch money fall from apple trees as we spaceship to Venus
dancing Zulu nation down the aisle our spaceship gold
the ocean’s behind us if we have time we can dip our feet making
a splash I 100 – yard dash to you country ace boon gimme gimme that
shot gun touch drunk, funk city sticky waking up to get our cake up
dripping plums shooting blue gangsta souls in two piece suits our
bullets bee sting off the Riesling there is nothing better than red wine
movie nights in this postmodern black bone
I remember meeting him in the library rhythm got off the pages
oh na na na we bowl with coconuts he’s so speakeasy
Simon says kiss on the lips we gold chain and Reebok classic
driving in Memphis our Memphis in May
Riverside drive we park near the ocean in a Chevy sitting on 44’s,
I met in the library his jazz, so June.
Burning Sage and Cooking Grits
Juke parties in the basement, a summer gala
in the kitchen where we press our hair
snap the peas, cut the peaches, fry the hog
a sweet potato breakfast
I want some fat in this life
a butter biscuit a creole blend
a fish that’s fried
okra, cornbread
some gravy on the side
a mango
salmon croquette, rice, and syrup
that only my daddy can make
he cuts the onions so fine
I rub the leftover butter on my body
beginning at the heels of my feet
in grits we put pepper, salt, and butter
the men in my life kiss me cayenne
they teach me how to get my hands dirty
we burn sage after sex opening the windows
our orange peels fall tattooing themselves
on the corner
caught juking, mama burns sage
she slaps our hips
we are the fast girls
we grind the muscles of
gizzards between our teeth
we want the milk and the money
mouths sweet with sin.
I crave grits, sun, and
you.
The Most Beautiful Postmodern Sunday
I post up in my post
modern cotton mouth candy
I once loved and
kissed a man like they do in the movies
he was slick a black man with a
beard and big feet
we merry go ‘round at the
midsouth fair our cotton candy
hands tangled the sun sitting on
our shoulders it’s a good idea to
stay in the house until the sun goes
down, the mosquitos feel like bees
and still we sit under the peach tree
I cut the flowers from his nose
another autumn in the south
where trees put you in a post sentimental mood
men smile at the Ms. Fat Booties
their gumbo biscuit asses
the way they stick their feet in the Mississippi
river then girl giggle before running
to sit on the hood of the Chevy the back of our
thighs hot my titties are Jamaican mangos
it all started out at the football game, his love and mine
I sat near the field drinking soda pop
smiling at his touchdowns pointing my
rifle at anyone who tackled him
us, the girls and I sat legs crossed
college sweaters and sweet potato pie
they urged me to pull the trigger
so much that we begin to climb electric arches
flames making our ankles hot
I sing the blues in my post contemporary
kitchen that is all white
he walks up behind me and kisses me on my neck
I’ve always wanted a functional kitchen
a home that looks like a cottage
my red Chevy parked outside
the rims big and shiny
shiny gold teeth and chains
are high art, post modern
cornbread and cabbage
rolling dice seven eleven
I sunbathe my skin
shine my gold teeth sparkle
wearing white in winter
kissing his beard in autumn
I post up, in my post modern
cinnamon Chevy my lips are maple
syrup tasting new moons, moon rocks
I once loved and kissed like they do in the movies.
Kaitlyn Lucille Palmer is a Memphis, TN native and second-year graduate student with a focus in poetry. Through her writing, Kaitlyn aims to tell the stories she imagined throughout girlhood, growing up in the colorful south. Kaitlyn’s work intertwines intellect and visceral experiences. Kaitlyn’s poetry is a celebration of black femininity that is unapologetic, vulnerable, and conscious of space and time. Kaitlyn’s art challenges, encouraging her audience to dream in color.