She formed from cosmic dust.
A ball of hollow gas with a dash of wonderment and arrogance.
She has long flat feet that used to dance to the heartbeats of drums
Her thighs are like logs
Thick and sturdy
Marked with the lines of growth and extension. Stripes like a tiger that ride to her saddle: plump and firm
These trunks walk grungy New York blocks
And they run crowded Manhattan streets
They connect to her womb that may someday house the sweetest fruit in 9 months she will meet
The button of her belly is her fourth eye
Through this fourth eye emits signals of the perfect mates or dates and when to wait
So it seems this eye has been blocked by eargness or naiveness or the simple fabrics of shirts
She has been hurt before.
A few times.
She does not possess the hips or seats for youths as her ancestral lineage suggests
But they sway & switch & dance & move
They glide & move to every bass filled groove.
Its the rhythm & riddim of the congos intertwined in her veins
Although she possess an English name
Her shoulders are broad & upright like a ligen filled tree
Shes square with a round face and skin of embellished gold that draped the Ethopians and dangled from the Egyptians
Her eyes are ancient but sad all at once. There are images with sorrows & joys behind her eyelids & every time she blinks she hopes to reset them
Hair covers every inch of her like a regal lionness
But it is her crown that is most impressive.
Her crown has been processed, burnt, ridculed, flipped, cut, bound, hidden, and dyed
Through all of the trauma her crown is mystic & mysterious & dark as her eyes.
She wears antennae that communicates with the Most High.
A hairstyle it may seem but you are in the presence of a queen
On a quest to her Queendom
Liberation is of the utmost importance
She will be free
I am sure of this because this literary beauty happens to be me.