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Young, Al
CONJUGAL VISITS
By noon we'll be deep into it --
up reading out loud in bed.
Or in between our making love
I'll paint my toenails red.
Reece say he got to change
his name from Maurice to Malik.
He think I need to change mine too.
Conversion, so to speak.
"I ain't no Muslim yet," I say.
"Besides, I like my name.
Kamisha still sounds good to me.
I'll let you play that game."
"I'd rather play with you," he say,
"than trip back to the Sixties."
"The Sixties, eh?" I'm on his case.
"Then I won't do my striptease."
This brother look at me and laugh;
he know I love him bad and,
worse, he know exactly how much
loving I ain't had.
He grab me by my puffed up waist
and pull me to him close.
He say, "I want you in my face .
Or on my face, Miss Toes."
What can I say? I'd lie for Reece,
but I'm not quitting school.
Four mouths to feed, not counting mine.
Let Urban Studies rule!
I met him in the want ads,
we fell in love by mail.
I say, when people bring this up,
"Wasn't no one up for sale."
All these Black men crammed up in jail,
all this I.Q. on ice,
while governments, bank presidents,
the Mafia don't think twice.
They fly in dope and make real sure
they hands stay nice and clean.
The chump-change Reece made on the street --
what's that supposed to mean?
"For what it cost the State
to keep you locked down, clothed and fed,
you could be learning Harvard stuff,
and brilliant skills," I said.
Reece say, "Just kiss me one more time,
then let's get down, make love.
Then let's devour that special meal
I wish they'd serve more of."
They say the third time out's a charm;
I kinda think they're right.
My first, he was the Ace of Swords,
which didn't make him no knight.
He gave me Zeus and Brittany;
my second left me twins.
This third one ain't about no luck;
we're honeymooners. Friends.
I go see Maurice once a month
while Moms looks after things.
We be so glad to touch again,
I dance, he grins, he sings.
When I get back home to my kids,
schoolwork, The Copy Shop,
ain't no way Reece can mess with me.
They got his ass locked up.