People would say
as they watch her carry
weighty bags like an overworked mule
The title, which is spoken so
fluidly like a noble title
scalds hotly like molten lava
on the smoothness of her thighs
Thighs which are caressed at night
through throes of midnight passion
that leaves the residue
that whelps late at night
for milk, she cannot provide
She toils day and night in hopes
of respite by noon’s day
balancing two or three jobs
that barely pays
At the edge of her bed
her phone glows
in anticipation of his visit
She rests in his arms
searching for solace that
can’t be found
Love he keeps
hidden in the boroughs
of El Dorado
He sprinkles upon her eyes
intermittent rewards that will
keep her at bay
and waiting eagerly for more
In the meantime, she’ll toil
scrap
bleed
and keep the bed warm for when
he’ll need a place to deposit his seed
Because she’s a strong Black woman
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