Our tongues fly like tropical flowers in a ciclón. I’ma treasure I can’t afford. I cannot even keep. That’s why I’m in his eyes, his eyes, or the air, very hot humid air. Somehow he manages to have me turn under myself. Like this, watch my arm. Yes, like that, but more delicately. And when I’m in perfect rhythm, I am his body and mine, moving through each other. Our nipples are the accents of some rhythm Mongo Santamaria or Pablo “Potato” Valdez would find irresistible. He says to me only, “Shimmy.

Liliane

Liliane by Ntozake Shange