|Jul/Aug 2000 Poetry|
The red woman delivered barbecue
and tart lemonade: her words
searing enough to singe our clothes
and hair as she shut her eyes and curled
her widened throat around each person,
place, or thing, every hotsmoked image.
We swam Pacific currents with her
and gang-walked urban streets;
stood on two-foot stools to cheer.
The night was set to four hundred-fifty
Her oven door was open-
she sizzled. Her mike was on.
--for Sharon Hudson, Dallas' "Flying Red Horse"
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