Jameka Williams

One after another, they descend a jacob's ladder rising from the smoke machine smog holding banana-gold pythons draped over their shoulders. They hold these slaves like an atlas. Men are held down with smooth lips gathering tenderness. Made slaves to a womanness against a championship of cock. Culling heat, vibrato. There is a jungle these women are in search of. They hold a lot of seeds which they forget to drop into the quaking earth. They are sorry. Not sorry. One says to the other: Sorry not sorry. One says this to another’s shorn head, to a tramp stamp. To another one’s flab. Apologizing to her bodies, she attacks her captors with the hook of an umbrella. She wants to have sex right now wants to keep all the money she’s made she wants to be contemporary, too & wants to tear her spanx at the belly & cool her titties in the shade the shade the shade. Holding hunger over their pythons, these women bite down through ethernet chords. The snakes rebel. Floored a black girl.