Asking for a Heart Attack Aretha.

Deep buter dipt, burnt pot liquor, twisted sugar cane, Vaselined knock knees clacking extraordinary gospel. hustling toward the promised land in 4/4 time, Aretha. Greased and glowing awash in limelight, satisfied moan 'neath the spotlight, turning ample ass toward midnight, she the it's-all-good goddess of warm cornbread and bumped buttermilk, know jesus by his first name. carried his gospel low and democratic in rollicking brownships, sang His drooping corpse down from that ragged wooden T, dressed Him up in something shiny, conked that Holy head of hair, then Aretha rustled up bus fare and took the deity downtown. They coaxed the DJ and slid electric untill the lights slammed on, she taught Him dirty nicknames for His father's handiwork. She was young then, thin and aching, her heartbox shut tight. So Jesus blessed her, He opened her throat and taught her to wail that way she do, she do wail that way don't she do that wail the way she do wail that way, don't she? Now every time 'retha unreel that screech, sang Delta cut through hurting to glimpse been-done-wrong bone, a born-again brother called the Holy Ghost creeps through that. and that, for all you still lookin', is religion. Dare you question her several shoulders, the soft stairsteps of flesh leading to her shaking chins, the steel bones of a corseted frock eating into bubbling sides, zipper track etched into skin, all those faint scars, those lovesore battle wounds? Ain't your mama never told you how black women collect the world, build other bodies onto their own? No earthly man knows the solution to our hips, asses urgent as sirens, titties familiar as everybody's mama crisscrossed with pulled roads of blood. Ask us why we pray with our dancin' shoes on, why we grow fat away from everyone and toward each other. Patricia Smith. Online Source

Medusa Poseidon was easier than most. He calls himself a god, but he fell beneath my fingers with more shaking than any mortal. He wept when my robe fell from my shoulders. I made him bend his back for me, listened to his screams break like waves. We defiled that temple the way it should be defiled, screaming and bucking our way from corner to corner. The bitch goddess probably got a real kick out of that. I'm sure I'll be hearing from her. She'll give me nightmares for a week or so; that I can handle. Or she'll turn the water in my well into blood; I'll scream when I see it, and that will be that. Maybe my first child will be born with the head of a fish. I'm not even sure it was worth it, Poseidon pounding away at me, a madman, losing his immortal mind because of the way my copper skin swells in moonlight. Now my arms smoke and itch. Hard scales cover my wrists like armour. C'mon Athena, he was only another lay, and not a particularly good one at that, even though he can spit steam from his fingers. Won't touch him again. Promise. And we didn't mean to drop to our knees in your temple, but our bodies were so hot and misaligned. It's not every day a gal gets to sample a god, you know that. Why are you being so rough on me? I feel my eyes twisting,

the lids crusting over and boiling, the pupils glowing red with heat. Athena, woman to woman, could you have resisted him? Would you have been able to wait for the proper place, the right moment, to jump those immortal bones? Now my feet are tangled with hair, my ears are gone. My back is curving and my lips have grown numb. My garden boy just shattered at my feet. Dammit, Athena, take away my father's gold. Send me away to live with lepers. Give me a pimple or two. But my face. To have men never again be able to gaze at my face, growing stupid in anticipation of that first touch, how can any woman live like that? How will I be able to watch their warm bodies turn to rock when their only sin was desiring me? All they want is to see me sweat. They only want to touch my face and run their fingers through my . . . my hair is it moving?