My Gender Is a Red Stiletto or Grocery Store Feet

Marita, don’t tell me to pick one.

           I am either barefoot or wearing six-inch Pleasers—

my gender is dirty-soled and naked or

           gleaming in patent leather and pointed height; lace me up

to cut me down I

           don’t know what shapes of me I’d like to scissor off and which ones

to hold on to. You get grocery store feet

           from being so poor

you have to walk around the Piggly Wiggly shoeless. I tell you that

           my mama always said don’t come in my house

with those grocery store feet

           after running around in the woods barefoot, how

I had to wash them off with the garden hose in the back.

           Dirt feels like home

if ever there was one.

           But you, Marita, make me feel grimy when you look at me

with that clean face of judgment

           when I talk about my job. Your daddy

pays all your bills. Mine’s

           all sugar and whips. Now look here—

you best quit looking at me like that,

           especially after I made you moan for ten hours straight.

Oughta take that garden hose and wash your stink off my chin,

           clean your attitude off  while I’m at it. 

Best remind yourself, my beautiful begonia,

           there ain’t nothing clean

about wealth.