I love that –
the way the hips sometimes roll
smooth without a crackle,
snap, creak.
Sometimes cased in dark new jeans,
the body-jelly stays upright and all the strings
pull down-up sideways proper.
Cased in jeans they’re like sex
in the hands of a hard-rock man.
Framed, the hips make a dance one step from orgasm;
they make a cry of love with each stride
forth to take the insides
further out.
The hips are the smile of the woman,
a smile with a hole at the bottom
left to let things in.
