Maya Angelou

Woman Me

Your smile, delicate
rumor of peace.
Deafening revolutions nestle in the
cleavage of
your breasts
Beggar-Kings and red-ringed Priests
seek glory at the meeting
of your thighs
A grasp of Lions. A lap of lambs.
 
       Your tears, jeweled
       strewn a diadem
       caused Pharaohs to ride
       deep in the bosom of the
       Nile. Southern spas lash fast
       their doors upon the night when
       winds of death blow down your name
       A bride of hurricanes. A swarm of summer wind.
 
Your laughter, pealing tall
above the bells of ruined cathedrals.
Children reach between your teeth
for charts to live their lives.
A stomp of feet. A bevy of swift hands.
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