Momma said never to ask him all those questions about what who why ever.
Said shut your mouth, he don’t need yo lip.
But sometimes in hush hush, he put a blanket over heads,
And sneak me some true Poppa wisp hers,
Like jumps through double Dutch.
About how torture was when they plug up the fire hydrants and erase the hopscotch chalk Up from your pavement,
All that happening inside you,
And that’s where scar tissue on broken backs web from.
Teacher said we like this for the storm keep rattling at us,
Blows seeds to where they don’t belong,
Which means diversity,
Like how when Momma fight Poppa I catch words I never heard.
Adultery = grown speak.
But the storm is less than half the deck, Poppa wisp her’d.
The kings and queens ride the mess.
And all the fuss and holler just dust below the light.
That’s why I’ve gotta learn and write, to make for better seeing,
Like Byrds of Jazz fly on high.
Momma said raps are the poems of nightness,
So I should black up my verses to rhyming bars for stardom.
She said Poppa yells at her cause he wanted to be famous and but became just an old broke soldier,
That war made his blood boil always too hot in his neck veins,
But I think she just don’t know how to please a man––
His words always just nice warm to me.
I like to wisp her down my words for true secrets float above the dust,
Like ice cream over root beer.
And little girls need more than school to not become like Mommas,
Which is why I still ask Poppa questions in hush hush with the blanket over heads.