Mary Moore Easter

peach of a grape in his fingertips like holding home he noses its musk Taste, he says and parts my lips with a globe and a thumb I lick I bite the thick skin His Arkansas aches sweet on my tongue His hand vines my chin my throat My face flames To the lady on the bus he brags Her blush comes from my touch.

(there’ll be days like this.) — The Shirelles These folks ’bout to respect me into the grave. At eighty Mama said, (mama said) “People think you change when you’re old but you still got a girl inside.” And men could see her, too — that pink silk dress — soothe that hotel bellboy “Boy, I’m old enough to be your mama.” He coy “well, you ain’t.” But seventy is prime time for me to own what “elder” brings. I reap myself with the respect they sow. They don’t know I got the road wide open in me.