Yolanda Wisher

i’d rather have an agogô for a heart a djembe for a heart gramophone for a heart bison bone for a heart dandelion spore for a heart sweet cream butter for a heart i’d rather have a mason jar for a heart an ashtray for a heart a plate of liver for a heart lawnmower for a heart jezebel for a heart instead of this flesh & blood which mars my sheets instead of this archive that clogs my toilet instead of this flea-bitten attic full of raccoons instead of this envelope that arrives already open instead of this light bulb that rattles on the inside instead of this tv box that draws attention on trash day instead of this wart that only responds to rain instead of this colander that never catches the grit i’d rather have a heart born of the lust between a sonnet & a blues song a coleridge-wild weed hoochie coochie heart a we real cool heart aboard the impossible spawn of slave ships an undying, maroon eternally brown in the black hills heart i’d rather have a heart that beats that beats that beats that beats that beats

after Billie these vitamin double ds gonna put cows outta business. these Sunday bests if frozen would delight. unpasteurized & untamed they swing in the hammock of my torso. they magnetize my man's hands. like a Wonder Woman blast or a web of thunder from Storm's wrist, this cocktail is nurturing napalm manna dew, Pepto Bismol for civilization. you can't outwit these aureolas. these nipples are necrophilia's enemy. Coltrane couldn't blow these tumescent tubas. these are gourds that'll make a shekere obsolete, make an eggplant go pale. these breasts gonna put old Betsy outta business & send the men with goats a-packin. this love is like a faucet, it turns on & on.

what thoughts I have of you tonight, Du Bois of bodies rocked and minds embalmed in bark our blanched arrival—seethin with scandal's mark nowadays I peep you in the bean-pie seller's poise with that silhouette fit for bust or cameo I can't always divine your debonair birth or your boocoo brain laborin like an earth in hallelujah's ether, somehow duckin death's blow sure sprung from Imhotep's kundalini stitchin white reconstruction's funeral shroud scriptin Philly dirges for the cryin out loud cussin Garvey's name over martinis sometimes I wonder if you double agent on the page or mastermind of our ordered rage

Sometimes we would get hungry for the neighborhood. Walk up the sidewalk towards Chestnut Street. Speak to the Rev holding the light-skinned baby, ask his son to come put a new inner tube on my bike. Cross Ludlow, past the mailbox on the corner, Risqué Video, Dino's Pizza, and the Emerald Laundromat. The fruit trucks tucked into 44th Street on the left, house eyes shut with boards, fringes of children. Once we went into a store sunk into the street, owned by a Cambodian woman. She sold everything, from evening gowns to soup. Over to Walnut and 45th, where the Muslim cat sells this chicken wrapped in pita, draped in cucumber sauce. The pregnant woman behind the counter writes our order out in Arabic. We grab a juice from the freezer, some chips, eye the bean and sweet potato pies. Back into the hot breath of West Philly, sun is setting. The sky is smeared squash, tangerines in a glaze. Three girls and one boy jump doubledutch. A white man hustles from the video store with a black plastic bag. We look for money in the street, steal flowers from the church lawn. The shit stain from the wino is still on our step. Mr. Jim is washing a car for cash. John is cleaning his rims to Buju Banton. Noel is talking sweetly to the big blue-eyed woman. Linda, on her way to the restaurant. The sister in the wheelchair buzzes by with her headphones on. One night, a man was shot and killed on this block, right outside our thick wood door. But not today. Today is one of those days to come home from walking in the world, leave the windows open, start a pot of black beans. Smoke some Alice Coltrane. Cut up some fruit, toenails. Hold on to the moment as if time is taking your blood pressure.