Maya Angelou, a phenomenal woman.
I was not built in a day, but I am not
a phenomenal woman yet, and I
never will be.
She says I can be, I am;
draws staccato on my belly while I sit scared.
She sings and grab grabs grab;
I do not lie, but
the stories I can shape.
She keeps my hands from giving way.
Outside, a lightning storm rages, pulling
the blades from the turf my worried fingers picked.
Smoke in girl palms, a traced dashboard,
the street stretched out in false time and space.
Well, I am shit shit shit
and I am dumb dumb dumb,
but with her fingers inside me I will make an appeal.
I will never be phenomenal.