My Grandma's Hips

my grandma’s hips knock over bookshelves.

i know because she told me so.

her stretch/marks the space like thick cream of wheat being spun by a wooden spoon

whose handle melts into the creamy-toned palm of her hand/some

hips don’t groove like hers do.

some keep stiff like frozen meat

before it’s seasoned and thawed

beneath the hot sink rain.

some smell dry like the dust bubbling

in yo bedroom corners.

some speak languages that can never transcend the sterile self.

and then some

taste sunny like brown curry dancing on your T buds.

those the hips that cut smooth through the air

with the seduction of a djembe’s tongue.

you know the rhythm?