Much love to Rhodessa Jones.
I felt I'd rolled up
in an orange jumpsuit
out of an upturned laundry hamper
and into my faceless enemy
(who must exist
because I can hear him.)
Take a bow, Mr. Way
before the storyteller,
her bust in a glass box,
an army of tale-weavers
set on her brow.
Personal summer, power surge
a throaty sistah growl
"I've come for your chickens!
I've come for your hogs!"
she hollered and danced
with her shadow women
and for a night
exorcised my demons.
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