FOR ARCHIBALD J. MOTLEY’S BROWN GIRL
She’d walk up and take the sandwich
from your hand to feed her kids
She’d wear red ’round her rear on Sunday
to Sunday service
Her lips were painted red
Her nails were painted red
She made looking away from you
look easy and telling you off
even easier
She boldly walked into church and
kissed the preacher’s cheek
She laughed loud and
folded money into her bra
She’s the reason the witch doctor wore rose-scented cologne
The painter had to paint her
he said
“Nude”
and she allowed him to follow her around for days
He knew she drank beer and
smoked cigarettes
He knew she lived in a greystone on St. Lawrence Avenue with her mother
Her mother baby-sat her kids
She shopped once a month at Marshall Field’s and
paid extra to have things delivered
The father of two of her three boys
was Robert King
one of “Big Daddy King’s” sons
from the King’s Report
The painter painted her
by looking into her window
He painted her
while she undressed in another room
and half her body
including one butt cheek
was exposed
He painted her
under the light of a shaded lamp
wearing only pumps
brown skin and
milk beneath her pores
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Vida Cross’ work has appeared in Reverie Journal, Reed Magazine, Make Magazine, WarpLand, Mochila Review, and the Journal of Film and Video. In 2008, she received an Illinois Arts Council Special Assistance Grant for Bronzeville at Night: 1949. She was named the Honorable Mention Award recipient by Elizabeth Alexander in the 2010 Cave Canem Poetry Prize. Cross is a recipient of scholarships from Cave Canem, The Napa Valley Writers’ Conference, and Voices of Our Nation writers’ retreat.
“Bodacious” originally appeared in TLR: Refrigerator Mothers, and is retrieved here as part of our Vigil for Mother’s Day 2022