I loved to see them shudder at the sightOf a soul bared Black: a slick funk& mewled, made men knuckle, women buckle,Everyone hustle for touch. In a countryOf shame, I was an enigma: a niggaWith pride. Yes, I was named the oppositeOf sin. My angles angered my father.The child of a child of god, my fatherWas a bishop who didn’t like my business,Who begged me to clothe, to fear, to faith.I never listened. Sundays still he wouldCoax me to rise from the oakwood pews,Black as I am, hushing, ushering theCongregation to look, look at my girl.
