Tiddies Ain’t Everything
(for Sara the Butterscotch Sunflower Queen )
Six years ago
another day, another year
moving, grooving in high gear
the typical, the general, the non-specific regular stuff
sometimes smooth, sometimes a little rough
annuals, physicals, dentist, g y n, mammogram
the letter in the mail SLAM
against a hard wall
i don’t get it , I don’t understand
cold room stunned with grief
word after word flies through my oncologist’s teeth
i can’t figure it out /what is she saying
she tells me that it’s normal/that I’m in shock
says I should bring a tape recorder
or another person to interpret/ to tell me /what she’s talking about
but I’m not deaf, I can hear
i just don’t know what I’m hearing
i grew up in Sicily, i’m Italian
i’m familiar with the sounds of
butterscotch sunflowers dancing in unison toward the noon day sun
i’m used to the sound of my mother’s voice praying to
The Black Madonna of Tindari
i’m accustomed to the short brown blunt cut of my childhood
short very short /front smoothed back with a big ass bow that
my mother put in daily/it was white
she was probably tryna purify me, or chase the devil out of
ME who chased boys and played cowboys and indians
ME who drove them crazy running all over town
ME who loved the taste of chocolate gelato/ice cold on my tongue
ME C A N C E R ?
ME who never did girly things
ME who never even had full grown woman breasts or hips or anything
until my late 40’s/then voom-voom
look it/ I started to wear the fitted zip-ups
so I could stick them up over and shout
showing off my cleavage
fully blossomed spilling out
in full voluptuous view,
thick hips, painted lips/ all brand new
i’ve waited my whole life for you two
now one of you has to go
no no no
24
african Voices