The basket. The baby. The birthing.

A man between my legs. A man between my mother's legs.

And her mother's legs. 

How much of our history can be found in the sway of my hips?

Of your hips?

When men consume you on the street what are they looking at?

What do they swallow with the biggest gulp?

Breasts are in fashion but they know,

And their grandfathers knew. It's the hips.

Always our hips, and the way they labor for men.

Laundry on our hip. 

Baby on our hip. 

Eyes, always eyes, on our hips.

Hips cracking to give children.

Men's hands on our hips.

My hips are a record of subjection.

When men eat them up on the street.

I wonder, do they want my hips,

Or our labor?