“Inhale and Nurse”, you are my curse.
I spend more time bent down in prayer
Than I do writing ev’ry verse.
Your elixir is what I wear.
Oh, I sup at your font, seeking
A hotter kind of flamed baptism—
I kneel when the font is leaking;
My lips spread wide, my mouth a prism.
Father, if this is sin, if black;
Then call me your “Little Negro”
And hop aboard my mind’s one track.
Tickle my tongue and my ego.