Know my hips
A revised publication of Hips
“I know her favorite color,
what books she reads,
what she would choose on Netflix.”
She knew what he assumed.
But what did he know?
With a slow slide of her hip,
a memory in a mirror,
a serpentine arm motion
as she brewed her coffee, she sighed.
Would he ever ask?
He didn’t know the story behind these hips,
the motion that used to flow so easily,
listening to Habibi-Ya-Einy and Enta Omri
and the jingle of small coins
clinking together on a bright scarf.
She couldn’t punish him for
not knowing, not asking
but she would wake up
in the middle of the night,
look over, and whisper:
You don’t know me
Thank you especially to the amazing writer, K.E. Kimball for amazing revision suggestions and her reworking!