for all the girls who got it right and grew into women.
Cherry Hill don’t want a man taking care of her scabs and moving her crates from here to there,
She is just fine chasing those flies with her amber kitchen towel
sometimes in her pale blue nightgown.
Whatever man comes around, she don’t want none to stay;
There is no capacity for her, his woes, hidden whores and flaws,
Cherry Hill dun had it all, enough and now she wants no more.
Miss Lady sways her way through her Black Woman scented stick corridors,
candles lighting the spaces in between the walls she softens with framed
poetry and drawings from her favorite artists
living her life like the thorns beneath her feet don’t hurt.
Her blinds have nothing to hide so they’re always high
And I like to spy
in from the corner of my curtain
I’m certain she knows I stare in wondering
if I could ever sip tea with her and verse my words about the flow of my existence,
I’m stuck over some boy, broke and alone
and mama is either gone or smokes all day long
so I’m nervous about the nature of my situation and uh,
“Miss Cherry Hill, how is it that you are the way that you are?” I think I might say,
I want that
I would definitely add.
Like the surety of time passing,
when the daytime begins its plight
she’ll be right by that window in plain view sight,
looking on at something
cupping a tea but never nothing,
Her braids kiss her shoulders like the light in her green eyes,
this woman is everything.
Is she praying?
I do know that in her living,
She confuses men by the way she occupies spaces,
Invites stares from confused western faces
and shifts my movements in a quiet, stirring revolution because
Miss Cherry Hill,
from the window across your window,
I see you and
I salute you
for being a woman.