Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue One

Jennifer Yeatts

Hip Poem

— after Dorianne Laux Your sloping hill and valley hip. Your wheatfield sunny afternoon hip, your narrow chisel bike-pedal of a hip. The slender curving lurch curled against my back as we slip into sleep, your swagger Sunday morning skipping church to walk downtown hip. The hip behind the faded pocket of your Luckys, where I reach sometimes to swipe your keys or knife. Your powertool twist and hammer hip. Your yoga before breakfast hip, hip where your slow breath rests between each drawn stretch. Your perfect skipping-rock of a hip. Your puddle- jump, swing-and-spin, peach-skin hip. Grip my thumb reaches for upon waking, languid grasp to reel me from dream to light. Your swivel on the dance floor hip, a hip for each hand to clutch, precursor to the closeness I crave in evenings. Your sailing fore and aft hip, your hired deckhand crows-nest of a hip. Your knuckle-soft, chiropractor nightmare hip. Your always ticklish, never tucked in t-shirt hip. Eggs for breakfast, leave the dishes, snuggle deep under flannel not-an-inch-between-us wrinkle of a hip. Carry me home hip.