Iyana Sky
Pulled Pork
In Killeen, Texas we eat at bars that serve flesh
holy men call sin with sips of cold Dos Equis
in between licked lips. Here I’ve solved
my heart’s equation: the more I flatter,
the longer you’ll stay, so I plaster glory
between your shoulders, titillated and immune
to your hand swats because you, outta them all,
adore Zadie Smith and admit that neo-soul brings
you zen. And how you gush like a leaky faucet
over little colored me, ruffling the picked curls
you know I wear for you.
Never do I bring up all the black men and women
dying across these streets; never do I mention
their children gunned down in Paw Patrol beds.
Instead I learn appreciation for your precious soccer,
focused on your translucent green eyes and gulping
down chip after chip of stringy meat that ferments
in my stomach, sucking in the bloat as if you won’t notice.
“Black and mixed girls/women, in my experience, are often trained to willingly do anything and give up anything for a modicum of attention from a white boy/man. This is an example.”
